go and build a new one for Him somewhere else. So
they sung a hymn in the open air, and went home again.

Jurgen could not be found anywhere in the town of Skjagen, nor
on the dunes, though they searched for him everywhere. They came to
the conclusion that one of the great waves, which had rolled far up
on the beach, had carried him away; but his body lay buried in a
great sepulchre--the church itself. The Lord had thrown down a
covering for his grave during the storm, and the heavy mound of sand
lies upon it to this day. The drifting sand had covered the vaulted
roof of the church, the arched cloisters, and the stone aisles. The
white thorn and the dog rose now blossom above the place where the
church lies buried, but the spire, like an enormous monument over a
grave, can be seen for miles round. No king has a more splendid
memorial. Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the dead. I was the
first to hear this story, for the storm sung it to me among the
sand-hills.

THE SAUCY BOY

Once upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good
old poets.

One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm
going on outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat
comfortably in his chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and
the apples were roasting.

"There will not be a dry thread left on the poor people who are
out in this weather," he said.

"Oh, open the door! I am so cold and wet through," called a little
child outside. It was crying and knocking at the door, whilst the rain
was pouring down and the wind was rattling all the windows.

"Poor creature!" said the poet, and got up and opened the door.
Before him stood a little boy; he was naked, and the water flowed from
his long fair locks. He was shivering with cold; if he had not been
let in, he would certainly have perished in the storm.

"Poor little thing!" said the poet, and took him by the hand.
"Come to me; I will soon warm you. You shall have some wine and an
apple, for you are such a pretty boy."

And he was, too. His eyes sparkled like two bright stars, and
although the water flowed down from his fair locks, they still
curled quite beautifully.

He looked like a little angel, but was pale with cold, and
trembling all over. In his hand he held a splendid bow, but it had
been entirely spoilt by the rain, and the colours of the pretty arrows
had run into one another by getting wet.

The old man sat down by th