TheLittleMatch-Seller

　　by

　　HansChristianAndersen

　　(1846)

　　ITwasterriblycoldandnearlydarkonthelasteveningoftheoldyear,andthesnowwasfallingfast.Inthecoldandthedarkness,apoorlittlegirl,withbareheadandnakedfeet,roamedthroughthestreets.Itistrueshehadonapairofslipperswhenshelefthome,buttheywerenotofmuchuse.Theywereverylarge,solarge,indeed,thattheyhadbelongedtohermother,andthepoorlittlecreaturehadlosttheminrunningacrossthestreettoavoidtwocarriagesthatwererollingalongataterriblerate.Oneoftheslippersshecouldnotfind,andaboyseizedupontheotherandranawaywithit,sayingthathecoulduseitasacradle,whenhehadchildrenofhisown.Sothelittlegirlwentonwithherlittlenakedfeet,whichwerequiteredandbluewiththecold.Inanoldapronshecarriedanumberofmatches,andhadabundleoftheminherhands.Noonehadboughtanythingofherthewholeday,norhadanyonegivenherevenapenny.Shiveringwithcoldandhunger,shecreptalong;poorlittlechild,shelookedthepictureofmisery.Thesnowflakesfellonherlong,fairhair,whichhungincurlsonhershoulders,butsheregardedthemnot.

　　Lightswereshiningfromeverywindow,andtherewasasavorysmellofroastgoose,foritwasNew-year’seve—yes,sherememberedthat.Inacorner,betweentwohouses,oneofwhichprojectedbeyondtheother,shesankdownandhuddledherselftogether.Shehaddrawnherlittlefeetunderher,butshecouldnotkeepoffthecold;andshedarednotgohome,forshehadsoldnomatches,andcouldnottakehomeevenapennyofmoney.Herfatherwouldcertainlybeather;besides,itwasalmostascoldathomeashere,fortheyhadonlytherooftocoverthem,throughwhichthewindhowled,althoughthelargestholeshadbeenstoppedupwithstrawandrags.Herlittlehandswerealmostfrozenwiththecold.Ah!perhapsaburningmatchmightbesomegood,ifshecoulddrawitfromthebundleandstrikeitagainstthewall,justtowarmherfingers.Shedrewoneout—“scratch!”howitsputteredasitburnt!Itgaveawarm,brightlight,likealittlecandle,assheheldherhandoverit.Itwasreallyawonderfullight.Itseemedtothelittlegirlthatshewassittingbyalargeironstove,withpolishedbrassfeetandabrassornament.Howthefireburned!andseemedsobeautifullywarmthatthechildstretchedoutherfeetasiftowarmthem,when,lo!theflameofthematchwentout,thestovevanished,andshehadonlytheremainsofthehalf-burntmatchinherhand.

　　Sherubbedanothermatchonthewall.Itburstintoaflame,andwhereitslightfelluponthewallitbecameastransparentasaveil,andshecouldseeintotheroom.Thetablewascoveredwithasnowywhitetable-cloth,onwhichstoodasplendiddinnerservice,andasteamingroastgoose,stuffedwithapplesanddriedplums.Andwhatwasstillmorewonderful,thegoosejumpeddownfromthedishandwaddledacrossthefloor,withaknifeandforkinits*,tothelittlegirl.Thenthematchwentout,andthereremainednothingbutthethick,damp,coldwallbeforeher.

　　Shelightedanothermatch,andthenshefoundherselfsittingunderabeautifulChristmas-tree.Itwaslargerandmorebeautifullydecoratedthantheonewhichshehadseenthroughtheglassdoorattherichmerchant’s.Thousandsoftaperswereburninguponthegreenbranches,andcoloredpictures,likethoseshehadseenintheshow-windows,lookeddownuponitall.Thelittleonestretchedout