could be told.

His mother came at last, and took little Gustava in her arms. Tuk ran
quickly to the window and read and read till he had almost read his eyes
out--for it was growing dark, and his mother could not afford to buy
candles.

"There goes the old washerwoman down the lane," said the mother, as she
looked out of the window. "She can hardly drag herself along, poor
thing; and now she has to carry that heavy pail from the pump. Be a good
boy, little Tuk, and run across to help the poor creature, will you
not?" And little Tuk ran quickly and helped to bear the weight of the
pail. But when he came back into the room, it was quite dark. Nothing
was said about a candle, and it was of no use to wish for one; he must
go to his little trundle-bed, which was made of an old settle.

There he lay, still thinking of the geography lesson, of Seeland, and of
all that the master had said. He could not read the book again, as he
should by rights have done, for want of a light. So he put the
geography-book under his pillow. Somebody had once told him that would
help him wonderfully to remember his lesson, but he had never yet found
that one could depend upon it.

There he lay and thought and thought, till all at once he felt as though
some one were gently sealing his mouth and eyes with a kiss. He slept
and yet did not sleep, for he seemed to see the old washerwoman's mild,
kind eyes fixed upon him, and to hear her say: "It would be a shame,
indeed, for you not to know your lesson to-morrow, little Tuk. You
helped me; now I will help you, and our Lord will help us both."

All at once the leaves of the book began to rustle under little Tuk's
head, and he heard something crawling about under his pillow.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" cried a hen, as she crept towards him. (She came
from the town of Kjoege.) "I'm a Kjoege hen," she said. And then she told
him how many inhabitants the little town contained, and about the battle
that had once been fought there, and how it was now hardly worth
mentioning, there were so many greater things.

[Illustration: All in a moment he was on horseback, and on he went,
gallop, gallop!]

Scratch, scratch! kribbley crabbley! and now a great wooden bird jumped
down upon the bed. It was the popinjay from the shooting ground at
Praestoe. He had reckoned the number of inhabitants in Praestoe, and found
that there were as many as he had nails in his body. He was a proud
bird. "Thorwaldsen lived in o