THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
It was terribly cold. It was snowing, and almost dark, for it was the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness, a poor little girl walked bareheaded and barefoot through the streets. It is true she had worn slippers when she left home, but they were too large—her mother's old ones. As she hurried across the street to avoid two fast carriages, she lost them. One slipper was gone; a boy ran off with the other, saying it would make a fine cradle someday.
So the little girl walked on with her tiny naked feet, red and blue with cold. She carried matches in an old apron and held a bundle in her hand. No one had bought any all day; no one had given her a single coin.
Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along—a picture of misery. Snowflakes settled on her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls about her neck, but she did not think of her beauty. From every window, candles gleamed, and the delicious smell of roast goose filled the air, for it was New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that.
In a corner between two houses, she sat down and huddled. She drew her feet close, but grew colder still. She dared not go home, for she had sold no matches and earned no money. Her father would beat her, and at home it was cold too, with only a leaky roof overhead, its cracks stuffed with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost numb. Oh, how a single match might comfort her! If only she dared take one, strike it on the wall, and warm her fingers. She drew one out. "Rischt!" How it blazed! It was a warm, bright flame like a candle. She held her hands over it—a wonderful light. To her, it seemed she sat before a large iron stove with polished brass feet and ornaments. The fire burned so blessedly, warming her delightfully. She stretched out her feet to warm them too, but—the flame went out, the stove vanished. Only the burnt match remained in her hand.
She struck another. It burned brightly, and where the light fell, the wall became transparent like a veil. She could see into a room where a snow-white tablecloth was spread. Upon it stood a splendid porcelain service, and a roast goose steamed famously, stuffed with apples and plums. Even better, the goose hopped from the dish, waddled across the floor with a knife and fork in its breast, right up to the girl—then the match went out. Only the thick, cold, damp wall remained.
She lit another match. Now she sat under a magnificent Christmas tree, larger and more decorated than the one she had seen through a rich merchant's glass door. Thousands of lights burned on its green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, like those in shop windows, looked down upon her. She reached out her hands—the match went out. The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, becoming stars in the sky. One fell, leaving a long trail of fire.
"Someone has just died," whispered the girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had loved her, had said that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.
She struck another match. In its glow stood her grandmother, bright, radiant, and loving.
"Grandmother!" cried the child. "Oh, take me with you! You vanish when the match goes out, like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the Christmas tree!"
She quickly struck the whole bundle against the wall, wanting to keep her grandmother near. The matches blazed with a light brighter than noon. Never had her grandmother looked so beautiful and tall. She took the little girl in her arms, and together they flew in joy and brightness, higher and higher, where there was no cold, no hunger, no fear—they were with God.
But in the corner, at the cold dawn, sat the poor girl with rosy cheeks and a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall—frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark she sat with her matches, one bundle burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one knew what beautiful things she had seen, or the splendor in which she and her grandmother had entered the joys of a new year.