tone, so uniform
and so tiring that little Tuk fell into a good sound sleep, which, by
the bye, could not do him any harm.

But even in this sleep there came a dream, or whatever else it was: his
little sister Augusta, she with the blue eyes and the fair curling hair,
was suddenly a tall, beautiful girl, and without having wings was yet
able to fly; and she now flew over Zealand--over the green woods and the
blue lakes.

"Do you hear the cock crow, Tukey? Cock-a-doodle-doo! The cocks are
flying up from Kjoge! You will have a farm-yard, so large, oh! so very
large! You will suffer neither hunger nor thirst! You will get on in the
world! You will be a rich and happy man! Your house will exalt itself
like King Waldemar's tower, and will be richly decorated with marble
statues, like that at Prastoe. You understand what I mean. Your name
shall circulate with renown all round the earth, like unto the ship that
was to have sailed from Corsor; and in Roeskilde--"

"Do not forget the diet!" said King Hroar.

"Then you will speak well and wisely, little Tukey; and when at last you
sink into your grave, you shall sleep as quietly--"

"As if I lay in Soroe," said Tuk, awaking. It was bright day, and he was
now quite unable to call to mind his dream; that, however, was not at
all necessary, for one may not know what the future will bring.

And out of bed he jumped, and read in his book, and now all at once he
knew his whole lesson. And the old washerwoman popped her head in at the
door, nodded to him friendly, and said, "Thanks, many thanks, my good
child, for your help! May the good ever-loving God fulfil your loveliest
dream!"

Little Tukey did not at all know what he had dreamed, but the loving God
knew it.

THE NAUGHTY BOY

Along time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As
he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without,
and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm
and comfortable in his chimney-corner, where the fire blazed and the
roasting apple hissed.

"Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin,"
said the good old poet.

"Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold, and I'm so wet!" exclaimed suddenly
a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for admittance, while
the rain poured down, and the wind made all the windows rattle.

"Poor thing!" said the old poet, as he went to open the door. There
stood a little