Once upon a time, there were twenty-five tin soldiers, all brothers, made from the same old tin spoon. They wore red and blue uniforms, shouldered their guns, and looked straight ahead. When the lid of their box was lifted, a little boy exclaimed, "Hurrah, tin-soldiers!" for his birthday. He set them on a table.
Each soldier was identical except one, made last when the tin ran short. He stood firmly on one leg, just as the others did on two, and he became famous.
Among the many toys on the table was a beautiful cardboard castle. In front of it stood tiny trees around a mirror like a lake, with wax swans floating on it. But the most beautiful was a little paper lady in the castle doorway. She wore a fine muslin dress with a blue ribbon and a large glittering gold-paper rose. She was a dancer, stretching out her arms and lifting one leg so high the one-legged Tin Soldier thought she, too, had only one leg.
"That's the wife for me!" he thought. "But she lives in a castle, and I have only a box with twenty-four others. Still, I must meet her." He hid behind a snuff-box to watch her, as she balanced on one leg.
When night came, the other soldiers returned to their box, and the household went to bed. The toys came to life, playing and making noise. Only the Tin Soldier and the little Dancer remained still. She stood on tiptoe, arms outstretched; he stood steadfastly on his one leg, never taking his eyes off her.
At midnight, the lid of the snuff-box flew open. Inside was not snuff but a little black imp. "Don't look at things not meant for you!" the imp said. The Tin Soldier ignored him. "Wait till tomorrow!" the imp warned.
In the morning, the Tin Soldier was placed on a windowsill. Whether by the wind or the imp, the window flew open, and he fell head over heels from the third floor. He landed headfirst, his gun stuck between paving stones.
The maid and the boy searched but didn't see him. The Tin Soldier thought it improper to call out while in uniform.
It began to drizzle, then pour. After the rain, two street boys found him. "A Tin Soldier! Let's make him sail!" they said. They made a paper boat and set him sailing in the gutter. The boat tossed on the swift current, but the Tin Soldier remained steadfast, looking straight ahead, shouldering his gun.
The boat entered a dark tunnel. "Where am I?" he wondered. "If only the little lady were here, I wouldn't mind the darkness."
A large water-rat from the tunnel demanded, "Have you a passport? Show it!" The Tin Soldier stayed silent, gripping his gun. The rat chased the boat, shouting to wood chips and straw to stop him for not paying the toll.
The current grew stronger. The Tin Soldier saw daylight at the tunnel's end but heard a terrifying roar. The gutter emptied into a great canal, like a waterfall.
The boat rushed forward. The Tin Soldier held himself stiff, determined not to flinch. The boat whirled, filled with water, and began to sink. The water rose to his neck, then over his head. He thought of the little Dancer he would never see again, and a refrain echoed in his ears: "Forward, forward, soldier bold! Death's before thee, grim and cold!"
The paper tore, and he fell—but was swallowed by a great fish.
It was dark and cramped inside the fish, but the steadfast Tin Soldier lay full length, shouldering his gun. The fish swam, then contorted violently before going still. A flash of light—daylight streamed in. "Why, here is the little Tin Soldier!" a voice exclaimed. The fish had been caught, sold, and brought to a kitchen. The cook cut it open, found the soldier, and carried him to the living room.
Everyone wanted to see the hero from inside a fish, but the Tin Soldier was not proud. They placed him on a table—and he was back in the same room! He saw the same children, toys, and the castle with the little Dancer. She still stood on one leg, steadfast. He was deeply moved, nearly shedding tin tears, but that was not fitting for a soldier. He looked at her, but she said nothing.
Suddenly, a boy threw the Tin Soldier into the stove without explanation—doubtly the imp's doing.
The heat was terrible. He didn't know if it was from the fire or his passion. His color was gone. He looked at the little lady, and she looked at him. He felt himself melting but remained steadfast, gun at his shoulder.
A door opened, a draught caught the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph into the stove, bursting into flames—and was gone. The Tin Soldier melted into a lump. The next morning, the maid found him in the shape of a heart in the ashes. All that remained of the Dancer was her gilt rose, burnt black as a cinder.