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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. | 
