he, and so
they parted. But the princess gave him a sabre set with gold pieces
which he could use.

Then he flew away, bought himself a new dressing-gown, and sat down
in the wood and began to make up a story, for it had to be ready by
Saturday, and that was no easy matter.

When he had it ready it was Saturday.

The sultan, the sultana, and the whole court were at tea with the
princess.

He was most graciously received.

'Will you tell us a story?' said the sultana; 'one that is thoughtful
and instructive?'

'But something that we can laugh at,' said the sultan.

'Oh, certainly,' he replied, and began: 'Now, listen attentively. There
was once a box of matches which lay between a tinder-box and an old iron
pot, and they told the story of their youth.

'"We used to be on the green fir-boughs. Every morning and evening
we had diamond-tea, which was the dew, and the whole day long we had
sunshine, and the little birds used to tell us stories. We were very
rich, because the other trees only dressed in summer, but we had green
dresses in summer and in winter. Then the woodcutter came, and our
family was split up. We have now the task of making light for the lowest
people. That is why we grand people are in the kitchen."

'"My fate was quite different," said the iron pot, near which the
matches lay.

'"Since I came into the world I have been many times scoured, and have
cooked much. My only pleasure is to have a good chat with my companions
when I am lying nice and clean in my place after dinner."

'"Now you are talking too fast," spluttered the fire.

'"Yes, let us decide who is the grandest!" said the matches.

'"No, I don't like talking about myself," said the pot.

'"Let us arrange an evening's entertainment. I will tell the story of my
life.

'"On the Baltic by the Danish shore-"

'What a beautiful beginning!" said all the plates. "That's a story that
will please us all."

'And the end was just as good as the beginning. All the plates clattered
for joy.

'"Now I will dance," said the tongs, and she danced. Oh! how high she
could kick!

'The old chair-cover in the corner split when he saw her.

'The urn would have sung but she said she had a cold; she could not sing
unless she boiled.

'In the window was an old quill pen. There was nothing remarkable about
her except that she had been dipped too deeply into the ink. But she was
very proud of that.

'"If the urn will not sing," said she, "out