The Story of the Year Page #3

"The Story of the Year" is a children's fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen about the journey of a little girl through the four seasons of the year. Each season has its own storyline filled with important lessons, unique adventures, and magical moments. From the awakening spring to the serene winter, the girl observes the constant change in nature and learns about life, change, growth, and renewal. Typical of Andersen’s works, this book combines elements of magic, wonder, and moral teachings.

• Children

								

another the yellow mustard seed, as if the nest had been placed
there only for its comfort and protection, and the sparrows were
flying round them all.

"Tweet, where has the master of the nest gone?" cried one, "I
suppose he could not bear it when the wind blew, and therefore he
has left this country. I wish him a pleasant journey."

The forest leaves became more and more yellow, leaf after leaf
fell, and the stormy winds of Autumn howled. The year was now far
advanced, and upon the fallen, yellow leaves, lay the queen of the
year, looking up with mild eyes at a gleaming star, and her husband
stood by her. A gust of wind swept through the foliage, and the leaves
fell in a shower. The summer queen was gone, but a butterfly, the last
of the year, flew through the cold air. Damp fogs came, icy winds
blew, and the long, dark nights of winter approached. The ruler of the
year appeared with hair white as snow, but he knew it not; he
thought snow-flakes falling from the sky covered his head, as they
decked the green fields with a thin, white covering of snow. And
then the church bells rang out for Christmas time.

"The bells are ringing for the new-born year," said the ruler,
"soon will a new ruler and his bride be born, and I shall go to
rest with my wife in yonder light-giving star."

In the fresh, green fir-wood, where the snow lay all around, stood
the angel of Christmas, and consecrated the young trees that were to
adorn his feast.

"May there be joy in the rooms, and under the green boughs,"
said the old ruler of the year. In a few weeks he had become a very
old man, with hair as white as snow. "My resting-time draws near;
the young pair of the year will soon claim my crown and sceptre."

"But the night is still thine," said the angel of Christmas,
"for power, but not for rest. Let the snow lie warmly upon the
tender seed. Learn to endure the thought that another is worshipped
whilst thou art still lord. Learn to endure being forgotten while
yet thou livest. The hour of thy freedom will come when Spring
appears."

"And when will Spring come?" asked Winter.

"It will come when the stork returns."

And with white locks and snowy beard, cold, bent, and hoary, but
strong as the wintry storm, and firm as the ice, old Winter sat on the
snowdrift-covered hill, looking towards the south, where Winter had
sat before, and gazed. The ice glittered, the snow crackled, the
skaters skimmed over the polished surface of the lakes; ravens and
crows formed a pleasing contrast to the white ground, and not a breath
of wind stirred, and in the still air old Winter clenched his fists,
and the ice lay fathoms deep between the lands. Then came the sparrows
again out of the town, and asked, "Who is that old man?" The raven sat
there still, or it might be his son, which is the same thing, and he
said to them,--

"It is Winter, the old man of the former year; he is not dead,
as the calendar says, but he is guardian to the spring, which is
coming."

"When will Spring come?" asked the sparrows, "for we shall have
better times then, and a better rule. The old times are worth
nothing."

And in quiet thought old Winter looked at the leafless forest,
where the graceful form and bends of each tree and branch could be
seen; and while Winter slept, icy mists came from the clouds, and
the ruler dreamt of his youthful days and of his manhood, and in the
morning dawn the whole forest glittered with hoar frost, which the sun
shook from the branches,--and this was the summer dream of Winter.

"When will Spring come?" asked the sparrows. "Spring!" Again the
echo sounded from the hills on which the snow lay. The sunshine became
warmer, the snow melted, and the birds twittered, "Spring is
coming!" And high in the air flew the first stork, and the second
followed; a lovely child sat on the back of each, and they sank down
on the open field, kissed the earth, and kissed the quiet old man;
and, as the mist from the mountain top, he vanished away and
disappeared. And the story of the year was finished.

"This is all very fine, no doubt," said the sparrows, "and it is
very beautiful; but it is not according to the calendar, therefore, it
must be all wrong."
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