’They were three beautiful sisters, all most delicate, and quite transparent.  One wore a crimson robe, the other a blue, and the third was pure white.  These three danced hand-in-hand, by the edge of the lake in the moonlight.  They were human beings, not fairies of the wood.  The fragrant air attracted them, and they vanished into the wood; here the fragrance was stronger still.  Three coffins glide out of the wood towards the lake, and in them lie the maidens.  The fire-flies flutter lightly round them with their little flickering torches.  Do these dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead?  The scent of the flower says that they are corpses.  The evening bell tolls their knell.’

‘You make me quite sad,’ said little Gerda; ’your perfume is so strong it makes me think of those dead maidens.  Oh, is little Kay really dead?  The roses have been down underground, and they say no.’

‘Ding, dong,’ tolled the hyacinth bells; ’we are not tolling for little Kay; we know nothing about him.  We sing our song, the only one we know.’

And Gerda went on to the buttercups shining among their dark green leaves.

‘You are a bright little sun,’ said Gerda.  ’Tell me if you know where I shall find my playfellow.’

The buttercup shone brightly and returned Gerda’s glance.  What song could the buttercup sing?  It would not be about Kay.

’God’s bright sun shone into a little court on the first day of spring.  The sunbeams stole down the neighbouring white wall, close to which bloomed the first yellow flower of the season; it shone like burnished gold in the sun.  An old woman had brought her arm-chair out into the sun; her granddaughter, a poor and pretty little maid-servant, had come to pay her a short visit, and she kissed her.  There was gold, heart’s gold, in the kiss.  Gold on the lips, gold on the ground, and gold above, in the early morning beams!  Now that is my little story,’ said the buttercup.

‘Oh, my poor old grandmother!’ sighed Gerda.  ’She will be longing to see me, and grieving about me, as she did about Kay.  But I shall soon go home again and take Kay with me.  It is useless for me to ask the flowers about him.  They only know their own stories, and have no information to give me.’

Then she tucked up her little dress, so that she might run the faster; but the narcissus blossoms struck her on the legs as she jumped over them, so she stopped and said, ‘Perhaps you can tell me something.’

She stooped down close to the flower and listened.  What did it say?

‘I can see myself, I can see myself,’ said the narcissus.  ’Oh, how sweet is my scent.  Up there in an attic window stands a little dancing girl half dressed; first she stands on one leg, then on the other, and looks as if she would tread the whole world under her feet.  She is only a delusion.  She pours some water out of a teapot on to a bit of stuff that she is holding; it is her bodice.  “Cleanliness is a good thing,” she says.  Her white dress hangs on a peg; it has been washed in the teapot, too, and dried on the roof.  She puts it on, and wraps a saffron-coloured scarf round her neck, which makes the dress look whiter.  See how high she carries her head, and all upon one stem.  I see myself, I see myself!’