Now that Andersen was at the height of his fame, he had no lack of friends; for whether he was in Germany, or Spain, or England, he was everywhere given ovations that were fit for a king, and was everywhere entertained by the best people in the most sumptuous manner.  At one time he stayed for five weeks with Charles Dickens in his home at Gad’s Hill, and the two were ever afterward firm friends.  All of these people loved Andersen, not because of his fame, but because of the stories which had brought him fame, and because he was distinctly lovable in spite of his oddity; for Andersen was still odd.  He was ugly and ungainly, and, owing to his fondness for decoration, often dressed in the most peculiar fashion.  Then, too, he was so childishly vain of the fame which had come to him that he was at any time quite likely to stop in a crowded street and call across to a friend on the other side about some favorable notice which he had just received.  After people became accustomed to this trait, however, they saw that it was but another phase of the childlikeness which made Andersen so charming and so unlike many other famous men.

Despite his intimate knowledge of children, Andersen was never really fond of them.  They worried him, and he, for some reason or other, never seemed very attractive to them.  But if he could be induced to tell them or read them one of his stories, illustrating it with the queer antics and faces which he alone knew how to make, he was certain of an intensely interested audience.

Andersen’s fame and the love felt for him at home and abroad grew with his every year, and when he died, in 1875, his death was looked upon as a more than national calamity.  The highest people in Denmark, including the king and queen, who had come to look upon Andersen’s friendship as a great honor, followed him to his grave; and children all over the world sorrowed when they were told that the author of the beloved Fairy Tales would never write them another story.

PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER

By Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes—­
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by
Wait upon the children’s eye—­
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.

We may see now all things are—­
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies’ looks—­
In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books!

What we like about so fine a little poem as this is that it sets our thoughts to flying.  As we read it, we see autumn coming on, with the red and the gold and the orange tinting the leaves.  We can hear the last notes of the birds as they wing their way through the soft blue sky to gayer places in the warm southland.  The cold comes fast, and in the morning, as we try to play ball or gather the ripe nuts from the hazel bushes, our thumbs tingle with the frost.