“Do you hear the cock crow, Tukey?  Cock-a-doodle-doo!  The cocks are flying up from Kjoge!  You will have a farm-yard, so large, oh! so very large!  You will suffer neither hunger nor thirst!  You will get on in the world!  You will be a rich and happy man!  Your house will exalt itself like King Waldemar’s tower, and will be richly decorated with marble statues, like that at Prastoe.  You understand what I mean.  Your name shall circulate with renown all round the earth, like unto the ship that was to have sailed from Corsor; and in Roeskilde—­”

“Do not forget the diet!” said King Hroar.

“Then you will speak well and wisely, little Tukey; and when at last you sink into your grave, you shall sleep as quietly—­”

“As if I lay in Soroe,” said Tuk, awaking.  It was bright day, and he was now quite unable to call to mind his dream; that, however, was not at all necessary, for one may not know what the future will bring.

And out of bed he jumped, and read in his book, and now all at once he knew his whole lesson.  And the old washerwoman popped her head in at the door, nodded to him friendly, and said, “Thanks, many thanks, my good child, for your help!  May the good ever-loving God fulfil your loveliest dream!”

Little Tukey did not at all know what he had dreamed, but the loving God knew it.

THE NAUGHTY BOY

Along time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet.  As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-corner, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed.

“Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin,” said the good old poet.

“Oh let me in!  Let me in!  I am cold, and I’m so wet!” exclaimed suddenly a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for admittance, while the rain poured down, and the wind made all the windows rattle.

“Poor thing!” said the old poet, as he went to open the door.  There stood a little boy, quite naked, and the water ran down from his long golden hair; he trembled with cold, and had he not come into a warm room he would most certainly have perished in the frightful tempest.

“Poor child!” said the old poet, as he took the boy by the hand.  “Come in, come in, and I will soon restore thee!  Thou shalt have wine and roasted apples, for thou art verily a charming child!” And the boy was so really.  His eyes were like two bright stars; and although the water trickled down his hair, it waved in beautiful curls.  He looked exactly like a little angel, but he was so pale, and his whole body trembled with cold.  He had a nice little bow in his hand, but it was quite spoiled by the rain, and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran one into the other.

The old poet seated himself beside his hearth, and took the little fellow on his lap; he squeezed the water out of his dripping hair, warmed his hands between his own, and boiled for him some sweet wine.  Then the boy recovered, his cheeks again grew rosy, he jumped down from the lap where he was sitting, and danced round the kind old poet.