Soup From a Sausage Skewer Page #2

"Soup From a Sausage Skewer" by Hans Christian Andersen is a charming tale that showcases the author's talent for transforming ordinary items into magical objects. The book follows the adventures of a sausage skewer in a kitchen who boasts about its own worldly experiences and tells stories to other utensils. As the plot unfolds, readers are treated to a medley of stories, each revealing a moral lesson about life, self-esteem and pride. Renowned for its imaginative narrative, this book is a classic example of Andersen's master storytelling.

• Children

								

keep.'

"'Oh no, we won't keep it!' they all cried; and then they seized
the skewer, which I gave up to them, and danced with it to the spot
where the delicate moss grew, and set it up in the middle of the
green. They wanted a maypole, and the one they now had seemed cut
out on purpose for them. Then they decorated it so beautifully that it
was quite dazzling to look at. Little spiders spun golden threads
around it, and then it was hung with fluttering veils and flags so
delicately white that they glittered like snow in the moonshine. After
that they took colors from the butterfly's wing, and sprinkled them
over the white drapery which gleamed as if covered with flowers and
diamonds, so that I could not recognize my sausage skewer at all. Such
a maypole had never been seen in all the world as this. Then came a
great company of real elves. Nothing could be finer than their
clothes, and they invited me to be present at the feast; but I was
to keep at a certain distance, because I was too large for them.
Then commenced such music that it sounded like a thousand glass bells,
and was so full and strong that I thought it must be the song of the
swans. I fancied also that I heard the voices of the cuckoo and the
black-bird, and it seemed at last as if the whole forest sent forth
glorious melodies--the voices of children, the tinkling of bells,
and the songs of the birds; and all this wonderful melody came from
the elfin maypole. My sausage peg was a complete peal of bells. I
could scarcely believe that so much could have been produced from
it, till I remembered into what hands it had fallen. I was so much
affected that I wept tears such as a little mouse can weep, but they
were tears of joy. The night was far too short for me; there are no
long nights there in summer, as we often have in this part of the
world. When the morning dawned, and the gentle breeze rippled the
glassy mirror of the forest lake, all the delicate veils and flags
fluttered away into thin air; the waving garlands of the spider's web,
the hanging bridges and galleries, or whatever else they may be
called, vanished away as if they had never been. Six elves brought
me back my sausage skewer, and at the same time asked me to make any
request, which they would grant if in their power; so I begged them,
if they could, to tell me how to make soup from a sausage skewer.

"'How do we make it?' said the chief of the elves with a smile.
'Why you have just seen it; you scarcely knew your sausage skewer
again, I am sure.'

"They think themselves very wise, thought I to myself. Then I told
them all about it, and why I had travelled so far, and also what
promise had been made at home to the one who should discover the
method of preparing this soup. 'What use will it be,' I asked, 'to the
mouse-king or to our whole mighty kingdom that I have seen all these
beautiful things? I cannot shake the sausage peg and say, Look, here
is the skewer, and now the soup will come. That would only produce a
dish to be served when people were keeping a fast.'

"Then the elf dipped his finger into the cup of a violet, and said
to me, 'Look here, I will anoint your pilgrim's staff, so that when
you return to your own home and enter the king's castle, you have only
to touch the king with your staff, and violets will spring forth and
cover the whole of it, even in the coldest winter time; so I think I
have given you really something to carry home, and a little more
than something.'"

But before the little mouse explained what this something more
was, she stretched her staff out to the king, and as it touched him
the most beautiful bunch of violets sprang forth and filled the
place with perfume. The smell was so powerful that the mouse-king
ordered the mice who stood nearest the chimney to thrust their tails
into the fire, that there might be a smell of burning, for the perfume
of the violets was overpowering, and not the sort of scent that
every one liked.

"But what was the something more of which you spoke just now?"
asked the mouse-king.

"Why," answered the little mouse, "I think it is what they call
'effect;'" and thereupon she turned the staff round, and behold not
a single flower was to be seen upon it! She now only held the naked
skewer, and lifted it up as a conductor lifts his baton at a
concert. "Violets, the elf told me," continued the mouse, "are for the
sight, the smell, and the touch; so we have only now to produce the
effect of hearing and tasting;" and then, as the little mouse beat
time with her staff, there came sounds of music, not such music as was
heard in the forest, at the elfin feast, but such as is often heard in
the kitchen--the sounds of boiling and roasting. It came quite
suddenly, like wind rushing through the chimneys, and seemed as if
every pot and kettle were boiling over. The fire-shovel clattered down
on the brass fender; and then, quite as suddenly, all was still,--nothing
could be heard but the light, vapory song of the tea-kettle,
which was quite wonderful to hear, for no one could rightly
distinguish whether the kettle was just beginning to boil or going
to stop. And the little pot steamed, and the great pot simmered, but
without any regard for each; indeed there seemed no sense in the
pots at all. And as the little mouse waved her baton still more
wildly, the pots foamed and threw up bubbles, and boiled over; while
again the wind roared and whistled through the chimney, and at last
there was such a terrible hubbub, that the little mouse let her
stick fall.

"That is a strange sort of soup," said the mouse-king; "shall we
not now hear about the preparation?"

"That is all," answered the little mouse, with a bow.

"That all!" said the mouse-king; "then we shall be glad to hear
what information the next may have to give us."


WHAT THE SECOND MOUSE HAD TO TELL

"I was born in the library, at a castle," said the second mouse.
"Very few members of our family ever had the good fortune to get
into the dining-room, much less the store-room. On my journey, and
here to-day, are the only times I have ever seen a kitchen. We were
often obliged to suffer hunger in the library, but then we gained a
great deal of knowledge. The rumor reached us of the royal prize
offered to those who should be able to make soup from a sausage
skewer. Then my old grandmother sought out a manuscript which,
however, she could not read, but had heard it read, and in it was
written, 'Those who are poets can make soup of sausage skewers.' She
then asked me if I was a poet. I felt myself quite innocent of any
such pretensions. Then she said I must go out and make myself a
poet. I asked again what I should be required to do, for it seemed
to me quite as difficult as to find out how to make soup of a
sausage skewer. My grandmother had heard a great deal of reading in
her day, and she told me three principal qualifications were
necessary--understanding, imagination, and feeling. 'If you can manage
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes