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安徒生童話范文1

童話大師安徒生

我們熟悉的童話大師安徒生,全名漢斯·克里斯蒂安·安徒生.他1805年生于丹麥菲英島歐登塞的貧民區.1875年病逝于商人麥爾喬家中他的父親是個窮鞋匠,安徒生童年喪父,母親改嫁,從小就被貧困折磨,先后在幾家店鋪里做學徒,沒有受過正規教育.

他少年時代就對舞臺產生了興趣.1819年在哥本哈根皇家劇院當了一名小配角,后因嗓子失潤被解雇.1822年,他得到劇院導演納斯·科林的資助,就讀于斯萊厄爾瑟的一所文法學院.1829年4月,安徒生的一部創作喜劇《在尼古拉耶夫塔上的愛情》正式在皇家劇院上演的那一天,這位年輕的劇作靜靜的地坐在大劇院的一個角落里，望著他所創作的人物活生生的出現在觀眾的面前，聽著觀眾的喝彩，他的眼中不禁流出一行行的熱淚。十年前，他幾次想在這個劇院里找到一個小小的職位，都遭到奚落和否定。從那時到現在舞臺上的演出為止，這是一段多么艱苦和漫長的過程!今天，他終于成功了，得到了公眾的承認。

安徒生是從寫成年人的文學作品開始的，不過他對丹麥文學—也對世界文學的最大貢獻，卻是童話。1835年，他在創作了詩歌、小說、劇本，并受到社會承認之后，他認真的思考一個問 題:誰最需要他寫作呢？他感到最許要他寫作的人莫過于丹麥的孩子，特別是窮苦的孩子，他們是多么的寂寞，不但沒有上學的機會，沒有玩具，甚至還沒有朋友。他自己曾經就是一個這樣的孩子，為使這些孩子凄慘的生活有一點溫暖,同時通過這些東西來教育他們,使他們熱愛生活.他覺得最表他的這個思想的文學形式就是童話.于是他立志要寫童話,要做一個童話作家.

他已經成為赫赫有名的童話大師,這說明他以前的努力沒有白費.

安徒生童話范文2

指導老師:吳龍輝

聯系地址:湖南省平江縣長壽鎮太平小學

一本好書就像是我們最親密的伙伴，就像一盞指路的明燈，就像一位良師益友。它能使我把閱讀當成一種享受，感受心靈的激動，品味幸福，學會珍惜，伴隨我成長。

安徒生童話范文3

From very humble1 beginnings, Hans Christian Andersen became one of the world's best loved storytellers. The Emperor's New Clothes, Thumbelina, and The Ugly Duckling (小鴨) are the titles of children's stories that should ring a bell(大受歡迎) with all of us. His 156 different stories are the most translated fiction in history. Even now, 200 years after his death,his stories are being told and re-told all over the world.

Andersen was born in a one-room house in Odense, Denmark on April 2,1805.His father was a shoemaker and his mother had been a washerwoman before she married Hans' father.As for the facts about his family,Andersen wrote much about them in his autobiography （自傳）. His father died when Hans was only eleven years old. Young Andersen was wasting his time in school,daydreaming( 空想，白日夢 ) about the theater and the stories he would imagine.His mother sent him to work in a tailor's shop and later a tobacco factory to help support the family.Unhappy with these jobs,he left home at the age of fourteen to seek his fortune2 in Copenhagen.He nearly starved3 to death trying to earn a living as an artist, actor, dancer and singer.

Jonas Collin, a director of the Royal Theater and an influential （有影響的）govern- ment official, noticed Andersen when he was 17.Collin had read one of Andersen's plays and saw that the young man had talent （天才）. Collin sent him to a school near Copenhagen and eventually arranged private tutoring（私人教師）in Copenhagen.In 1828,at age 23, Andersen entered university in Copenhagen. Andersen began to be published in Denmark in 1829.In 1833 the king gave him travel money and he spent16 months traveling through Germany,France,Switzerland and Italy.As Andersen traveled he wrote many books about his experiences. Andersen wrote three different books about his own life. Some of his plays were big hits in Denmark and Danish children still sing some of his poems set to（為……設置背景）music. His best known stories were published between 1835 and 1850. Some are his own creations and others are his re-tellingof previously known Danish folk tales（民間故事）.

Andersen considered himself ugly all his life. He was tall and thin with a long nose. It was this self-view that inspired The Ugly Duckling. Andersen proposed（求婚） to several women during his life and was rejected4 by all of them.In spite of his lonely life he was able to create some of the most wonderful stories ever written. Andersen died on August 4, 1875.

注釋：

1．humble adj．地位低下的

2．fortune n．好運，成功

3．starve vi.挨餓

4．reject vt．拒絕……的求婚

安徒生出身非常卑微，但他卻成了世界上最受喜愛的作家之一。《皇帝的新裝》、《拇指姑娘》和《丑小鴨》都是非常受大家喜愛的兒童故事。他所寫的156個故事是歷史上被翻譯次數最多的作品。即使在其去世200年后的今天，他的作品還在世界各地被一遍遍地傳誦。

1805年4月2日，安徒生出生在丹麥歐登塞一個只有一間房子的小屋里。他父親是名鞋匠，而母親出嫁前一直是個洗衣婦。關于家庭的這些情況，安徒生在自傳中有過許多描述。安徒生年僅1l歲時，父親就死了。小安徒生在學校里打發時光，成天只想著自己虛構的戲劇和故事。為維持家中的生計，母親起初把他送到一家裁縫店干活，后來又讓他到煙廠做工。安徒生并不喜歡這些工作，14歲那年他離家到哥本哈根尋找好運。他想通過當過藝術家、演員、舞者和歌手來謀生，為此卻幾乎餓死。

安徒生童話范文4

complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes; and her

footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was lighter still. She

had a little child, not at all pretty; so he was put out to be

nursed by a laborer's wife, and his mother went to the count's castle.

She sat in splendid rooms, richly decorated with silk and velvet;

not a breath of air was allowed to blow upon her, and no one was

allowed to speak to her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's

child. He was fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an

angel; and how she loved this child! Her own boy was provided for by being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently than the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home to take care of the child. Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares for; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and while we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes; sleep is a capital invention.

As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like weeds,

although they said his growth had been stunted. He had become quite

a member of the family in which he dwelt; they received money to

keep him, so that his mother got rid of him altogether. She had become quite a lady; she had a comfortable home of her own in the town; and out of doors, when she went for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she never walked out to see the laborer: that was too far from the town, and, indeed, she had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to these laboring people. He had food, and he could also do something towards earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion sits

proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and barks at

every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps into his house,

and there he is warm and dry. Anne Lisbeth's boy also sat in the

sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting out a little toy. If it

was spring-time, he knew of three strawberry-plants in blossom,

which would certainly bear fruit. This was his most hopeful thought,

though it often came to nothing. And he had to sit out in the rain

in the worst weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind

dry the clothes on his back afterwards. If he went near the farmyard

belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked about, for the men and the maids said he was so horrible ugly; but he was used to all this, for nobody loved him. This was how the world treated Anne

Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be otherwise. It was his fate to be

beloved by no one. Hitherto he had been a land crab; the land at

last cast him adrift. He went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat

at the helm, while the skipper sat over the grog-can. He was dirty and

ugly, half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never

had enough to eat, which was really the case.

Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and wet,

and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing, especially at

sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only two men on board, or,

more correctly, a man and a half, for it was the skipper and his

boy. There had only been a kind of twilight all day, and it soon

grew quite dark, and so bitterly cold, that the skipper took a dram to

warm him. The bottle was old, and the glass too. It was perfect in the

upper part, but the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been

fixed upon a little carved block of wood, painted blue. A dram is a

great comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while

the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed

hands. He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked crippled

and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy, though in the

church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son. The wind cut

through the rigging, and the boat cut through the sea. The sails,

filled by the wind, swelled out and carried them along in wild career.

It was wet and rough above and below, and might still be worse.

Hold! what is that? What has struck the boat? Was it a waterspout,

or a heavy sea rolling suddenly upon them?

"Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat heeled

over and lay on its beam ends. It had struck on a rock, which rose

from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like an old shoe in a

puddle. "It sank at once with mouse and man," as the saying is.

There might have been mice on board, but only one man and a half,

the skipper and the laborer's boy. No one saw it but the skimming

sea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not

see it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled

with water and sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the

surface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The

glass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,

for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the

shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence. It

had served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's

boy had not been. But in heaven no soul will be able to say, "Never

loved."

Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was

called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the old, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had

associated with countess and baroness. Her beautiful, noble child

had been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved

her so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and

loved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life. Now

he was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had

not seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been

for years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from

the town.

"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see my

darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my heart. Certainly

he must long to see me, too, the young count; no doubt he thinks of me and loves me, as in those days when he would fling his angel-arms

round my neck, and lisp 'Anne Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I

must make an effort to see him again." She drove across the country in a grazier's cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot, and thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and magnificent as it had always been, and the garden looked the same as ever; all the servants were strangers to her, not one of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor of what consequence she had once been there; but she felt sure the countess would soon let them know it, and her darling boy, too: how she longed to see him!

Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was kept

waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes slowly. But

before the great people went in to dinner, she was called in and

spoken to very graciously. She was to go in again after dinner, and

then she would see her sweet boy once more. How tall, and slender, and thin he had grown; but the eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still beautiful. He looked at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did

not know who she was. He turned round and was going away, but she seized his hand and pressed it to her lips.

"Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the room. He

who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best, and who was

her whole earthly pride!

Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public road,

feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and night, and

even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold and strange, and had not a word or thought respecting her. A great black raven darted down in front of her on the high road, and croaked dismally.

"Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?" Presently she

passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the door, and the two

women spoke to each other.

"You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump; you are

well off."

"Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.

"The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans the

skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end of them. I

always thought the boy would be able to help me with a few dollars.

He'll never cost you anything more, Anne Lisbeth."

"So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she said no

more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very low-spirited, because her count-child had shown no inclination to speak to her who loved him so well, and who had travelled so far to see him. The journey had cost money too, and she had derived no great pleasure from it. Still she said not a word of all this; she could not relieve her heart by telling the laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not enjoy her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over her, screaming again as he flew.

"The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by frightening

me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she

thought it would be a charity to the poor woman to give them to her to boil a cup of coffee, and then she would take a cup herself.

The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth

seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she dreamed of something

which she had never dreamed before; singularly enough she dreamed of her own child, who had wept and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had been knocked about in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the depths of the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing the coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting. But suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the threshold a

beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child, and this

apparition said to her, "The world is passing away; hold fast to me,

for you are my mother after all; you have an angel in heaven, hold

me fast;" and the child-angel stretched out his hand and seized her.

Then there was a terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces,

and the angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by

the sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the ground;

but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her feet and dragged

her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of women were clinging to

her, and crying, "If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too.

Hold fast, hold fast." And then they all hung on her, but there were

too many; and as they clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell down in horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so startled

and alarmed that she could not remember what she had dreamed, only

that it was something very dreadful.

They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then Anne

Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the

carrier, who was to drive her back to her own home. But when she

came to him she found that he would not be ready to start till the

evening of the next day. Then she began to think of the expense, and

what the distance would be to walk. She remembered that the route by the sea-shore was two miles shorter than by the high road; and as

the weather was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might reach

home the next day.

The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the air

from the tower of the village church, but to her it was not the bells,

but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then they ceased, and all

around became still; not a bird could be heard, they were all at rest,

even the owl had not left her hiding place; deep silence reigned on

the margin of the wood by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she could hear her own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea were at rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence.

There was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne

Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say, or

rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for thought is

never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many thoughts that have lain

dormant are roused at the proper time, and begin to stir in the mind

and the heart, and seem even to come upon us from above. It is

written, that a good deed bears a blessing for its fruit; and it is

also written, that the wages of sin is death. Much has been said and

much written which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises

within us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and every virtue lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie like little grains

of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the touch of an evil hand, or

you turn the corner to the right or to the left, and the decision is

made. The little seed is stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours

its sap into your blood, directing your course either for good or

evil. Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting

there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it were

slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked on thus with

her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were fermenting within her.

From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to weigh down the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year; much may be forgotten, sins against heaven in word and thought, sins against our neighbor, and against our own conscience. We are scarcely aware of their existence; and Anne Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors.

She had committed no crime against the law of the land; she was an

honorable person, in a good position- that she knew.

She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea. What was it

she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now when might that have been washed overboard? She drew nearer, she stopped to look at the hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?" She shuddered; yet it was nothing save a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone, but it looked like a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was

frightened at it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her

mind that she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of

spectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied

people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate beach.

The body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but the spirit could pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to him, and demand to be carried to the churchyard, that it might rest in consecrated ground.

"Hold fast! hold fast!" the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth

murmured these words to herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly recalled to her memory, when the mother had clung to her, and uttered these words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had been torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who wanted to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her own child, which she had never loved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise up, like a spectre, from the waters, and cry, "Hold fast; carry me

to consecrated ground!"

As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to

her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came upon her

as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her heart, so that she

almost fainted. As she looked across the sea, all there grew darker; a

heavy mist came rolling onwards, and clung to bush and tree,

distorting them into fantastic shapes. She turned and glanced at the

moon, which had risen behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless

surface, and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold,"

thought she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the

moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist, hanging

like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to consecrated

earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow tones. The sound did

not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures.

"A grave! dig me a grave!" was repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed the spectre of her child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the

churchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated

ground. She would go there at once, and there she would dig. She

turned in the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart

seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she

turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned. "Stop! stop!"

and the words came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a

frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig me a grave!"

The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist and

clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and clung to

her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had never before been

there.

In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a single

night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full glory of

youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the consciousness of

the sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our past life, be unfolded to us. When once the conscience is awakened, it springs up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the conscience when we least expect it. Then we can find no excuse for ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us. The

thoughts seem to become words, and to sound far out into the world.

We are horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us, and at the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil which has its

origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart conceals within

itself the vices as well as the virtues, and they grow in the shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now experienced in thought what we have clothed in words. She was overpowered by them, and sank down

and crept along for some distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a

grave!" sounded again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried

herself, if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her

actions.

It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish and

horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with cold or burn

with the heat of fever. Many things, of which she had feared even to

speak, came into her mind. Silently, as the cloud-shadows in the

moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted by her; she had heard of it

before. Close by her galloped four snorting steeds, with fire flashing

from their eyes and nostrils. They dragged a burning coach, and within it sat the wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred years before. The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock, he drove into his castleyard and out again. He was not as pale as dead men are, but black as a coal. He nodded, and pointed to

Anne Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast! hold fast! and then you may ride again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your child."

She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard; but black

crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and she could not

distinguish one from the other. The ravens croaked as the raven had

done which she saw in the daytime, but now she understood what they said. "I am the raven-mother; I am the raven-mother," each raven

croaked, and Anne Lisbeth felt that the name also applied to her;

and she fancied she should be transformed into a black bird, and

have to cry as they cried, if she did not dig the grave. And she threw

herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the hard

ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers. "A grave! dig me a

grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful that the cock might

crow, and the first red streak appear in the east, before she had

finished her work; and then she would be lost. And the cock crowed,

and the day dawned in the east, and the grave was only half dug. An

icy hand passed over her head and face, and down towards her heart.

"Only half a grave," a voice wailed, and fled away. Yes, it fled

away over the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and

overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses left her.

It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men were

raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard, but on the

sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the sand, and cut her hand with a piece of broken glass, whose sharp stern was stuck in a

little block of painted wood. Anne Lisbeth was in a fever.

Conscience had roused the memories of superstitions, and had so

acted upon her mind, that she fancied she had only half a soul, and

that her child had taken the other half down into the sea. Never would

she be able to cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered

this other half which was now held fast in the deep water.

Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer the woman

she had been. Her thoughts were like a confused, tangled skein; only

one thread, only one thought was clear to her, namely that she must

carry the spectre of the sea-shore to the churchyard, and dig a

grave for him there; that by so doing she might win back her soul.

Many a night she was missed from her home, and was always found on the sea-shore waiting for the spectre.

In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she vanished

again, and was not to be found. The whole of the next day was spent in a useless search after her.

Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll the

vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had spent the whole day there. Her powers of body were almost exhausted, but her eyes flashed brightly, and on her cheeks was a rosy flush. The last rays of the setting sun shone upon her, and gleamed over the altar upon the shining clasps of the Bible, which lay open at the words of the prophet Joel, "Rend your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord."

"That was just a chance," people said; but do things happen by

chance? In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by the evening sun,

could be seen peace and rest. She said she was happy now, for she

had conquered. The spectre of the shore, her own child, had come to

her the night before, and had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half

a grave: but thou hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether

in thy heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And

then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the church. "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that house

we are happy."

When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that region

where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's troubles were at an

end.

THE END

安徒生童話范文5

“Spring is come.” Wild-flowers in profusion1 covered the hedges. Under the little apple-tree, Spring seemed busy, and told

his tale from one of the branches which hung fresh and blooming, and covered with delicate pink blossoms that were just ready

to open. The branch well knew how beautiful it was; this knowledge exists as much in the leaf as in the blood; I was

therefore not surprised when a nobleman’s carriage, in which sat the young countess, stopped in the road just by. She said

that an apple-branch was a most lovely object, and an emblem2 of spring in its most charming aspect. Then the branch was

broken off for her, and she held it in her delicate hand, and sheltered it with her silk parasol. Then they drove to the

castle, in which were lofty halls and splendid drawing-rooms. Pure white curtains fluttered before the open windows, and

beautiful flowers stood in shining, transparent3 vases; and in one of them, which looked as if it had been cut out of newly

fallen snow, the apple-branch was placed, among some fresh, light twigs4 of beech5. It was a charming sight. Then the branch

became proud, which was very much like human nature.

People of every description entered the room, and, according to their position in society, so dared they to express their

admiration6. Some few said nothing, others expressed too much, and the apple-branch very soon got to understand that there was

as much difference in the characters of human beings as in those of plants and flowers. Some are all for pomp and parade,

others have a great deal to do to maintain their own importance, while the rest might be spared without much loss to society.

So thought the apple-branch, as he stood before the open window, from which he could see out over gardens and fields, where

there were flowers and plants enough for him to think and reflect upon; some rich and beautiful, some poor and humble7 indeed.

“Poor, despised herbs,” said the apple-branch; “there is really a difference between them and such as I am. How

unhappy they must be, if they can feel as those in my position do! There is a difference indeed, and so there ought to be, or

we should all be equals.”

And the apple-branch looked with a sort of pity upon them, especially on a certain little flower that is found in fields

and in ditches. No one bound these flowers together in a nosegay; they were too common; they were even known to grow between

the paving-stones, shooting up everywhere, like bad weeds; and they bore the very ugly name of “dog-flowers” or

“dandelions.”

“Poor, despised plants,” said the apple-bough, “it is not your fault that you are so ugly, and that you have such an

ugly name; but it is with plants as with men,—there must be a difference.”

“A difference!” cried the sunbeam, as he kissed the blooming apple-branch, and then kissed the yellow dandelion out in

the fields. All were brothers, and the sunbeam kissed them—the poor flowers as well as the rich.

The apple-bough had never thought of the boundless9 love of God, which extends over all the works of creation, over

everything which lives, and moves, and has its being in Him; he had never thought of the good and beautiful which are so

often hidden, but can never remain forgotten by Him,—not only among the lower creation, but also among men. The sunbeam, the

ray of light, knew better.

“You do not see very far, nor very clearly,” he said to the apple-branch. “Which is the despised plant you so

specially8 pity?”

“The dandelion,” he replied. “No one ever places it in a nosegay; it is often trodden under foot, there are so many of

them; and when they run to seed, they have flowers like wool, which fly away in little pieces over the roads, and cling to

the dresses of the people. They are only weeds; but of course there must be weeds. O, I am really very thankful that I was

not made like one of these flowers.”

There came presently across the fields a whole group of children, the youngest of whom was so small that it had to be carried

by the others; and when he was seated on the grass, among the yellow flowers, he laughed aloud with joy, kicked out his

little legs, rolled about, plucked the yellow flowers, and kissed them in childlike innocence10. The elder children broke off

the flowers with long stems, bent11 the stalks one round the other, to form links, and made first a chain for the neck, then

one to go across the shoulders, and hang down to the waist, and at last a wreath to wear round the head, so that they looked

quite splendid in their garlands of green stems and golden flowers. But the eldest12 among them gathered carefully the faded

flowers, on the stem of which was grouped together the seed, in the form of a white feathery coronal. These loose, airy wool

-flowers are very beautiful, and look like fine snowy feathers or down. The children held them to their mouths, and tried to

blow away the whole coronal with one puff13 of the breath. They had been told by their grandmothers that who ever did so would

be sure to have new clothes before the end of the year. The despised flower was by this raised to the position of a prophet

or foreteller14 of events.

“Do you see,” said the sunbeam, “do you see the beauty of these flowers? do you see their powers of giving pleasure?”

“Yes, to children,” said the apple-bough.

By-and-by an old woman came into the field, and, with a blunt knife without a handle, began to dig round the roots of

some of the dandelion-plants, and pull them up. With some of these she intended to make tea for herself; but the rest she was

going to sell to the chemist, and obtain some money.

“But beauty is of higher value than all this,” said the apple-tree branch; “only the chosen ones can be admitted into

the realms of the beautiful. There is a difference between plants, just as there is a difference between men.”

Then the sunbeam spoke15 of the boundless love of God, as seen in creation, and over all that lives, and of the equal

distribution of His gifts, both in time and in eternity16.

“That is your opinion,” said the apple-bough.

Then some people came into the room, and, among them, the young countess,—the lady who had placed the apple-bough in the

transparent vase, so pleasantly beneath the rays of the sunlight. She carried in her hand something that seemed like a

flower. The object was hidden by two or three great leaves, which covered it like a shield, so that no draught17 or gust18 of

wind could injure it, and it was carried more carefully than the apple-branch had ever been. Very cautiously the large leaves

were removed, and there appeared the feathery seed-crown of the despised dandelion. This was what the lady had so carefully

plucked, and carried home so safely covered, so that not one of the delicate feathery arrows of which its mist-like shape was

so lightly formed, should flutter away. She now drew it forth19 quite uninjured, and wondered at its beautiful form, and airy

lightness, and singular construction, so soon to be blown away by the wind.

“See,” she exclaimed, “how wonderfully God has made this little flower. I will paint it with the apple-branch

together. Every one admires the beauty of the apple-bough; but this humble flower has been endowed by Heaven with another

kind of loveliness; and although they differ in appearance, both are the children of the realms of beauty.”

Then the sunbeam kissed the lowly flower, and he kissed the blooming apple-branch, upon whose leaves appeared a rosy20

blush.

那正是五月。風吹來仍然很冷；但是灌木和大樹，田野和草原，都說春天已經到來了。處處都開滿了花，一直開到灌木叢組成的籬笆上。春

天就在這兒講它的故事。它在一棵小蘋果樹上講——這棵樹有一根鮮艷的綠枝：它上面布滿了粉紅色的、細嫩的、隨時就要開放的花苞。它知

道它是多么美麗——它這種先天的知識深藏在它的葉子里，好像是流在血液里一樣。因此當一位貴族的車子在它面前的路上停下來的時候，當

年輕的伯爵夫人說這根柔枝是世界上最美麗的東西、是春天最美麗的表現的時候，它一點也不感到驚奇。接著這枝子就被折斷了。她把它握在

柔嫩的手里，并且還用綢陽傘替它遮住太陽。他們回到他們華貴的公館里來。這里面有許多高大的廳堂和美麗的房間。潔白的窗簾在敞著的窗

子上迎風飄蕩；好看的花兒在透明的、發光的花瓶里面亭亭地立著。有一個花瓶簡直像是新下的雪所雕成的。這根蘋果枝就插在它里面幾根新

鮮的山毛櫸枝子中間。看它一眼都使人感到愉快。

這根枝子變得驕傲氣來；這也是人之常情。

各色各樣的人走過這房間。他們可以根據自己的身份來表示他們的贊賞。有些人一句話也不講；有些人卻又講得太多。蘋果枝子知道，在

人類中間，正如在植物中間一樣，也存在著區別。

“有些東西是為了好看；有些東西是為了實用；但是也有些東西卻是完全沒有用，”蘋果樹枝想。

正因為它是被放在一個敞著的窗子面前，同時又因為它從這兒可以看到花園和田野，因此它有許多花兒和植物供它思索和考慮。植物中有

富的，也有貧賤的——有的簡直是太貧賤了。

“可憐沒有人理的植物啊！”蘋果枝說。“一切東西的確都有區別！如果這些植物也能像我和我一類的那些東西那樣有感覺，它們一定會

感到多么不愉快啊。一切東西的確有區別，而且的確也應該如此，否則大家就都是一樣的了！”

蘋果枝對某些花兒——像田里和溝里叢生的那些花兒——特別表示出憐憫的樣子。誰也不把他們扎成花束。它們是太普通了，人們甚至在

鋪地石中間都可以看得到。它們像野草一樣，在什么地方都冒出來，而且它們連名字都很丑，叫做什么“魔鬼的奶桶”（注：即蒲公英，因為

它折斷后可以冒出像牛奶似的白漿。）。

“可憐被人瞧不起的植物啊！”蘋果枝說。“你們的這種處境，你們的平凡，你們所得到的這些丑名字，也不能怪你們自己！在植物中間

，正如在人類中間一樣，一切都有個區別啦！”

“區別？”陽光說。它吻著這盛開的蘋果枝，但是它也吻著田野里的那些黃色的“魔鬼的奶桶”。陽光的所有弟兄們都吻著它們——吻著

下賤的花，也吻著富貴的花。

蘋果枝從來就沒想到，造物主對一切活著和動著的東西都一樣給以無限的慈愛。它從來沒有想到，美和善的東西可能會被掩蓋住了，但是

并沒有被忘記——這也是合乎人情的。

太陽光——明亮的光線——知道得更清楚：

“你的眼光看得不遠，你的眼光看得不清楚！你特別憐憫的、沒有人理的植物，是哪些植物呢？”

“魔鬼的奶桶！”蘋果枝說。“人們從來不把它扎成花束。人們把它踩在腳底下，因為它們長得太多了。當它們在結子的時候，它們就像

小片的羊毛，在路上到處亂飛，還附在人的衣上。它們不過是野草罷了！——它們也只能是野草！啊，我真要謝天謝地，我不是它們這類植物

中的一種！”

從田野那兒來了一大群孩子。他們中最小的一個是那么小，還要別的孩子抱著他。當他被放到這些黃花中間的時候，他樂得大笑起來。他的小

腿踢著，遍地打滾。他只摘下這種黃花，同時天真爛漫地吻著它們。那些較大的孩子把這些黃花從空梗子上折下來，并且把這根梗子插到那根

梗子上，一串一串地聯成鏈子。他們先做一個項鏈，然后又做一個掛在肩上的鏈子，一個系在腰間的鏈子，一個懸在胸脯上的鏈子，一個戴在

頭上的鏈子。這真成了綠環子和綠鏈子的展覽會。但是那幾個大孩子當心地摘下那些落了花的梗子——它們結著以白絨球的形式出現的果實。

這松散的、縹緲的絨球，本身就是一件小小的完整的藝術品；它看起來像羽毛、雪花和茸毛。他們把它放在嘴面前，想要一口氣把整朵的花球

吹走，因為祖母曾經說過：誰能夠這樣做，誰就可以在新年到來以前得到一套新衣。

所以在這種情況下，這朵被瞧不起的花就成了一個真正的預言家。

“你看到沒有？”太陽光說。“你看到它的美沒有？你看到它的力量沒有？”

“看到了，它只能和孩子在一道時是這樣！”蘋果枝說。

這時有一個老太婆到田野里來了。她用一把沒有柄的鈍刀子在這花的周圍挖著，把它從土里取出來。她打算把一部分的根子用來煮咖啡吃

；把另一部分拿到一個藥材店里當做藥用。

“不過美是一種更高級的東西呀！”蘋果枝說。“只有少數特殊的人才可以走進美的王國。植物與植物之間是有區別的，正如人與人之間

有區別一樣。”

于是太陽光就談到造物主對于一切造物和有生命的東西的無限的愛，和對于一切東西永恒公平合理的分配。

“是的，這不過是你的看法！”蘋果枝說。

這時有人走進房間里來了。那位美麗年輕的伯爵夫人也來了——把蘋果枝插在透明的花瓶中，放在太陽光里的人就是她。她手里拿著一朵

花——或者一件類似花的東西。這東西被三四片大葉子掩住了：它們像一頂帽子似地在它的周圍保護著，使微風或者大風都傷害不到它。它被

小心翼翼地端在手中，那根嬌嫩的蘋果枝從來也沒受過這樣的待遇。

那幾片大葉子現在輕輕地被挪開了。人們可以看到那個被人瞧不起的黃色“魔鬼的奶桶”的柔嫩的白絨球！這就是它！她那么小心地把它

摘下來！她那么謹慎地把這帶回家，好使那個云霧一般的圓球上的細嫩柔毛不致被風吹散。她把它保護得非常完整。她贊美它漂亮的形態，它

透明的外表，它特殊的構造，和它不可捉摸的、被風一吹即散的美。

“看吧，造物主把它創造得多么可愛！”她說。“我要把這根蘋果枝畫下來。大家現在都覺得它非凡地漂亮，不過這朵微賤的花兒，以另

一種方式也從上天得到了同樣多的恩惠。雖然它們兩者都有區別，但它們都是美的王國中的孩子。”

于是太陽光吻了這微賤的花兒，也吻了這開滿了花的蘋果枝——它的花瓣似乎泛出了一陣難為情的緋紅。（1852年）

這也是一首散文詩，最初發表在1852年哥本哈根出版的《丹麥大眾歷書》上。“植物與植物之間是有區別的，正如人與人之間有區別

一樣”。這里所說的“區別”是指“尊貴”和“微賤”之分。開滿了花的蘋果枝是“尊貴”的，遍地叢生的蒲公英是“微賤”的。雖然它們都

安徒生童話范文6

hastened to bring forth1 flowers before they got green leaves, and in

the yard all the ducklings walked up and down, and the cat too: it

basked in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws. And

when one looked at the fields, how beautifully the corn stood and

how green it shone, without comparison! and there was a twittering and a fluttering of all the little birds, as if the day were a great

festival; and so it was, for it was Sunday. All the bells were

ringing, and all the people went to church, looking cheerful, and

dressed in their best clothes. There was a look of cheerfulness on

everything. The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have said: "God's kindness to us men is beyond all limits." But inside

the church the pastor2 stood in the pulpit, and spoke3 very loudly and

angrily. He said that all men were wicked, and God would punish them for their sins, and that the wicked, when they died, would be cast into hell, to burn for ever and ever. He spoke very excitedly,

saying that their evil propensities4 would not be destroyed, nor

would the fire be extinguished, and they should never find rest.

That was terrible to hear, and he said it in such a tone of

conviction; he described hell to them as a miserable6 hole where all

the refuse of the world gathers. There was no air beside the hot

burning sulphur flame, and there was no ground under their feet; they,

the wicked ones, sank deeper and deeper, while eternal silence

surrounded them! It was dreadful to hear all that, for the preacher

spoke from his heart, and all the people in the church were terrified.

Meanwhile, the birds sang merrily outside, and the sun was shining

so beautifully warm, it seemed as though every little flower said:

"God, Thy kindness towards us all is without limits." Indeed,

outside it was not at all like the pastor's sermon.

The same evening, upon going to bed, the pastor noticed his wife

sitting there quiet and pensive7.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked her.

"Well, the matter with me is," she said, "that I cannot collect my

thoughts, and am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said to-day in church- that there are so many wicked people, and that they

should burn eternally. Alas8! eternally- how long! I am only a woman

and a sinner before God, but I should not have the heart to let even

the worst sinner burn for ever, and how could our Lord to do so, who is so infinitely9 good, and who knows how the wickedness comes from without and within? No, I am unable to imagine that, although you say so."

It was autumn; the trees dropped their leaves, the earnest and

severe pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person. A pious10,

faithful soul closed her eyes for ever; she was the pastor's wife.

..."If any one shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our

Lord you shall certainly do so," said the pastor. He folded her

hands and read a psalm11 over the dead woman.

She was buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the

earnest man, and in the parsonage it was empty and still, for its

sun had set for ever. She had gone home.

It was night. A cold wind swept over the pastor's head; he

opened his eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining

into his room. It was not so, however; there was a being standing

before his bed, and looking like the ghost of his deceased wife. She

fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression, just as

if she wished to say something to him. The pastor raised himself in

bed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, "Not even you can find eternal rest! You suffer, you best and most pious woman?"

The dead woman nodded her head as if to say "Yes," and put her

hand on her breast.

"And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?"

"Yes," was the answer.

"And how?"

"Give me one hair- only one single hair- from the head of the

sinner for whom the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner

whom God will condemn12 to eternal punishment in hell."

"Yes, one ought to be able to redeem13 you so easily, you pure,

pious woman," he said.

"Follow me," said the dead woman. "It is thus granted to us. By my

side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go.

Invisible to men, we shall penetrate14 into their most secret

chambers; but with sure hand you must find out him who is destined

to eternal torture, and before the cock crows he must be found!" As

quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great

city, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming

letters: pride, avarice15, drunkenness, wantonness- in short, the

whole seven-coloured bow of sin.

"Yes, therein, as I believed, as I knew it," said the pastor, "are

living those who are abandoned to the eternal fire." And they were

standing before the magnificently illuminated16 gate; the broad steps

were adorned17 with carpets and flowers, and dance music was sounding through the festive18 halls. A footman dressed in silk and velvet19 stood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.

"Our ball can compare favourably20 with the king's," he said, and

turned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street. What he

thought was sufficiently21 expressed in his features and movements:

"Miserable beggars, who are looking in, you are nothing in

comparison to me."

"Pride," said the dead woman; "do you see him?"

"The footman?" asked the pastor. "He is but a poor fool, and not

doomed to be tortured eternally by fire!"

"Only a fool!" It sounded through the whole house of pride: they

were all fools there.

Then they flew within the four naked walls of the miser5. Lean as a

skeleton, trembling with cold, and hunger, the old man was clinging

with all his thoughts to his money. They saw him jump up feverishly

from his miserable couch and take a loose stone out of the wall; there

lay gold coins in an old stocking. They saw him anxiously feeling over an old ragged22 coat in which pieces of gold were sewn, and his clammy fingers trembled.

"He is ill! That is madness- a joyless madness- besieged23 by fear

and dreadful dreams!"

They quickly went away and came before the beds of the

criminals; these unfortunate people slept side by side, in long

rows. Like a ferocious24 animal, one of them rose out of his sleep and

uttered a horrible cry, and gave his comrade a violent dig in the ribs

with his pointed25 elbow, and this one turned round in his sleep:

"Be quiet, monster- sleep! This happens every night!"

"Every night!" repeated the other. "Yes, every night he comes

and tortures me! In my violence I have done this and that. I was

born with an evil mind, which has brought me hither for the second

time; but if I have done wrong I suffer punishment for it. One

thing, however, I have not yet confessed. When I came out a little

while ago, and passed by the yard of my former master, evil thoughts

rose within me when I remembered this and that. I struck a match a

little bit on the wall; probably it came a little too close to the

thatched roof. All burnt down- a great heat rose, such as sometimes

overcomes me. I myself helped to rescue cattle and things, nothing

alive burnt, except a flight of pigeons, which flew into the fire, and

the yard dog, of which I had not thought; one could hear him howl

out of the fire, and this howling I still hear when I wish to sleep;

and when I have fallen asleep, the great rough dog comes and places

himself upon me, and howls, presses, and tortures me. Now listen to

what I tell you! You can snore; you are snoring the whole night, and I

hardly a quarter of an hour!" And the blood rose to the head of the

excited criminal; he threw himself upon his comrade, and beat him with his clenced fist in the face.

"Wicked Matz has become mad again!" they said amongst

themselves. The other criminals seized him, wrestled26 with him, and

bent him double, so that his head rested between his knees, and they

tied him, so that the blood almost came out of his eyes and out of all

his pores.

"You are killing27 the unfortunate man," said the pastor, and as

he stretched out his hand to protect him who already suffered too

much, the scene changed. They flew through rich halls and wretched

hovels; wantonness and envy, all the deadly sins, passed before

them. An angel of justice read their crimes and their defence; the

latter was not a brilliant one, but it was read before God, Who

reads the heart, Who knows everything, the wickedness that comes

from within and from without, Who is mercy and love personified.

The pastor's hand trembled; he dared not stretch it out, he did not

venture to pull a hair out of the sinner's head. And tears gushed28 from

his eyes like a stream of mercy and love, the cooling waters of

which extinguished the eternal fire of hell.

Just then the cock crowed.

"Father of all mercy, grant Thou to her the peace that I was

unable to procure29 for her!"

"I have it now!" said the dead woman. "It was your hard words,

your despair of mankind, your gloomy belief in God and His creation,

which drove me to you. Learn to know mankind! Even in the wicked one lives a part of God- and this extinguishes and conquers the flame of hell!"

The pastor felt a kiss on his lips; a gleam of light surrounded

him- God's bright sun shone into the room, and his wife, alive,

sweet and full of love, awoke him from a dream which God had sent him!

THE END