|
Along time ago， there lived an old poet， a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in his room， a dreadful storm arose without， and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-comer， where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed. Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin， said the good old poet. Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold， and Im so wet! exclaimed suddenly a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for admittance， while the rain poured down， and the wind made all the windows rattle. Poor thing! said the old poet， as he went to open the door. There stood a little boy， quite naked， and the water ran down from his long golden hair; he trembled with cold， and had he not come into a warm room he would most certainly have perished in the frightful tempest. Poor child! said the old poet， as he took the boy by the hand. Come in， come in， and I will soon restore thee! Thou shalt have wine and roasted apples， for thou art verily a charming child! And the boy was so really. His eyes were like two bright stars; and although the water trickled down his hair， it waved in beautiful curls. He looked exactly like a little angel， but he was so pale， and his whole body trembled with cold. He had a nice little bow in his hand， but it was quite spoiled by the rain， and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran one into the other. | 
