had slit it up with a big knife. She caught the
soldier around the body and carried him into the parlor, where everybody
wanted to see such a remarkable man who had traveled about in a fish's
belly. But the tin soldier was not a bit proud. They put him on the
table, and there--well! what strange things do happen in the world--the
tin soldier was in the very same room that he had been in before. He saw
the same children, and the same playthings were on the table, the
splendid castle with the pretty little dancer; she was still standing on
one leg, and had the other high in the air. She was steadfast, too. That
touched the tin soldier so that he could almost have wept tin tears, but
that would not have been proper. He looked at her and she looked at him,
but they said nothing at all.

Suddenly one of the little boys seized the tin soldier and threw him
right into the tile-stove, although he had no reason to. It was surely
the Troll in the box who was to blame.

The tin soldier stood in full light and felt a fearful heat; but whether
that came from the real fire, or from his glowing love, he could not
tell. All the color had faded from him; but whether this had happened on
the journey, or whether it came from care, no one could say. He looked
at the little girl and she looked at him. He felt that he was melting,
but still he stood steadfast, musket in hand. Then a door opened. A
whiff of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the
tile-stove to the tin soldier, blazed up in flame, and was gone. Then
the tin soldier melted to a lump, and when the maid next day took out
the ashes, she found him as a little tin heart. But of the dancer only
the star was left, and that was burnt coal-black.

THE TEAPOT

From 'Riverside Literature Series': 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

There was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of its long
spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something before and
behind--the spout before, the handle behind--and that was what it talked
about. But it did not talk of its lid--that was cracked, it was riveted,
it had faults; and one does not talk about one's faults--there are
plenty of others to do that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl,
the whole tea-service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness,
and talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable spout.
The Teapot knew it.

"I know you," it said within itself, "I know well en