the Flax亞麻

　　“I never imagined anything like this，” said the paper， “when I was only a little blue flower， growing in the fields. How could I fancy that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to man？ I cannot understand it myself， and yet it is really so. Heaven knows that I have done nothing myself， but what I was obliged to do with my weak powers for my own preservation； and yet I have been promoted from one joy and honor to another. Each time I think that the song is ended； and then something higher and better begins for me. I suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world， so that people may read me. It cannot be otherwise； indeed， it is more than probable； for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me， than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever.”

　　But the paper did not go on its travels； it was sent to the printer， and all the words written upon it were set up in type， to make a book， or rather， many hundreds of books； for so many more persons could derive pleasure and profit from a printed book， than from the written paper； and if the paper had been sent around the world， it would have been worn out before it had got half through its journey.

　　“This is certainly the wisest plan，” said the written paper； “I really did not think of that. I shall remain at home， and be held in honor， like some old grandfather， as I really am to all these new books. They will do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all this has looked at me， as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”

　　then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers， and thrown into a tub that stood in the washhouse.

　　“After work， it is well to rest，” said the paper， “and a very good opportunity to collect one's thoughts. Now I am able， for the first time， to think of my real condition； and to know one's self is true proGREss. What will be done with me now， I wonder？ No doubt I shall still go forward. I have always progressed hitherto， as I know quite well.”

　　Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out， and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop， to wrap up butter and sugar， because it had been written upon. The children in the house stood round the stove； for they wanted to see the paper burn， because it flamed up so prettily， and afterwards， among the ashes， so many red sparks could be seen running one after the other， here and there， as quick as the wind. They called it seeing the children come out of school， and the last spark was the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had come； and one would cry， “There goes the schoolmaster；” but the next moment another spark would appear， shining so beautifully. How they would like to know where the sparks all went to！ Perhaps we shall find out some day， but we don't know now.

　　the whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire， and was soon alight. “Ugh，” cried the paper， as it burst into a bright flame； “ugh.” It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning； but when the whole was wrapped in flames， the flames mounted up into the air， higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower， and they glistened as the white linen never could have glistened. All the written letters became quite red in a moment， and all the words and thoughts turned to fire.

　　“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun，” said a voice in the flames； and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words； and the flames darted up through the chimney， and went out at the top. Then a number of tiny beings， as many in number as the flowers on the flax had been， and invisible to mortal eyes， floated above them. They were even lighter and more delicate than the flowers from which they were born； and as the flames were extinguished， and nothing remained of the paper but black ashes， these little beings danced upon it； and whenever they touched it， bright red sparks appeared.

　　“the children are all out of school， and the schoolmaster was the last of all，” said the children. It was good fun， and they sang over the dead ashes，—

　　“Snip， snap， snurre，Basse lure：the song is ended.”

　　But the little invisible beings said， “The song is never ended； the most beautiful is yet to come.”

　　But the children could neither hear nor understand this， nor should they； for children must not know everything.