{herve leger} {store-herve-leger}
 

1872
FAIRY TALES WITH HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE ACTUAL BIRD OF POPULAR TUNE
by Hans Christian Andersen
It can be winter-time. The earth would wear a snowy garment, and appears to be
marble hewn out of the rock; the air will be bright and clear; the actual wind
is sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the particular trees stand like divisions
of white coral or blooming almond twigs, and here it can be keen as on the
lofty Alps.
The night is splendid while in the gleam of the Northern Lights, and
in the particular glitter of innumerable twinkling megastars.
But we sit while in the warm room, by the particular hot stove, and talk about
the old times. And we focus on this story:
By the particular open sea was a giant's grave; and to the grave-mound sat at
midnight the spirit on the buried hero, who ended up a king. The
wonderful circlet gleamed on their brow, his hair fluttered while in the wind,
and he has been clad in steel and also iron. He bent their head mournfully, and
sighed around deep sorrow, as a good unquiet spirit might sigh.
And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors put the
anchor and landed. Among them was a new singer, and he approached the
royal spirit, and also said,
"Why mournest thou, and also wherefore dost thou endure thus? "
And the particular dead man answered,
"No you've sung the deeds of gaming; they are dead along with
forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth on the lands, nor into the
hearts of men; therefore I've no rest and zero peace. "
And they spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which will his
contemporaries had acknowledged, but which had not necessarily been sung, because there were no singer among his or her companions.
Then the good old bard struck the strings with his harp, and sang with
the youthful courage on the hero, of the strength with the man, and of
the actual greatness of his beneficial deeds. Then the face on the dead one gleamed such as margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and involving good courage, the variety arose in splendor and also in majesty, and vanished much like the glancing of the north light. Nought was to appear but the green tufy mound, with the stones on which no Runic record have been graven; but at the third sound of the harp there soared in the hill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little hen, a
charming singing-bird, with ringing voice on the thrush, with the
moving voice pathos on the human heart,herve leger, with a new voice that told connected with
home, like the voice that is definitely heard by the parrot of passage. The
singing-bird soared out, over mountain and valley, over field and
wood- he or she was the Bird involving Popular Song, who never dies.
We hear his song- we all hear it now while in the room while the whitened
bees are swarming not having, and the storm aftermakert cluch the windows. The
bird sings not by yourself the requiem of heroes; he or she sings also sweet mellow
songs of love, so many and so warm, connected with Northern fidelity and fact.
He has stories in words and in ringtones; he has proverbs plus snatches of proverbs; melodies which, like Runes installed under a dead millions of people's tongue,
force him in order to speak; and thus Popular Song tells with the land of his
birth and labor.
In the old heathen days and nights, in the times of the Vikings, the popular speech was enshrined inside harp of the bard.
While in the days of knightly castles, once the strongest fist held
the actual scales of justice, when only might was proper, and a peasant plus
a dog were associated with equal importance, where have the Bird of Melody find
shelter and security? Neither violence nor absurdity gave him a
believed.
But in the gabled window with the knightly castle, the lady on the
castle sat with the particular parchment roll before the woman, and wrote down the
old recollections in tune and legend, while near her stood the older
woman from the lumber,herve leger dress, and the travelling peddler who went wandering throughout the country. As these shared with their tales, there fluttered close to them, with twittering and song, the Bird involving Popular Song, who never dies as long as the earth has any hill upon which the foot may rest.
Now he looks in after us and sings. Without will be the night and
the snow-storm. He or she lays the Runes within our tongues, and we all know the land with our home. Heaven speaks to us in this native tongue, in the voice with the Bird of Popular Tune. The old remembrances awake, the faded colors glow which includes a fresh lustre, and account and song pour all of us a blessed draught which lifts up our thoughts and our thoughts, to ensure the evening becomes being a Christmas festival.
The snow-flakes chase both, the ice cracks, the actual storm
rules without, for she has the might, he is lord- but is not the LORD OF
ALMOST ALL.
It is winter period. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the
snow-flakes chase both; it seems as though it absolutely was snowing
for days along with weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the particular
whole town, like a heavy imagine the winter night. Every little thing on
the earth will be hidden away, only the golden cross on the church, the
symbol with faith, arises over the snow grave, and gleams while in the blue
air and while in the bright sunshine.
And on the buried town fly this birds of heaven, the tiny and
the great; they twitter and they also sing as best they will often, each bird with
her beak.
First comes the particular band of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle while in the
streets and lanes, while in the nests and the residences; they have stories in order to
tell about the front buildings plus the back buildings.
"We realize the buried town, " they will say; "everything living inside is
piep! piep! piep! "
The black ravens plus crows flew on on the white snow.
"Grub, grub! " they will cried. "There's something to be got down there;
a thing to swallow, and that's most significant. That's the opinion of the majority of down there, and the particular opinion is goo-goo-good! "
The actual wild swans come skiing on whirring pinions, and sing on the
noble and the wonderful, that will still sprout inside hearts of men, decrease
in the town that is resting beneath its snowy veil.
Zero death is there- life reigns yonder; we hear it to the notes
that swell onward much like the tones of the religious organization organ, which seize you
like sounds from the particular elf-hill, like the songs of Ossian, like the particular
rushing swoop of the wandering spirits' wings. What exactly harmony! That
harmony break silence to our hearts, and also lifts up our souls! It can be the Bird
of Well-liked Song whom we notice.
And at this second the warm breath regarding heaven blows down with the
sky. There are gaps inside snowy mountains,herve leger dresses, the sun shines into the
clefts; spring is coming, the birds are going back, and new races will be
coming with the same home sounds within their hearts.
Hear the story with the year: "The night on the snow-storm, the
heavy dream of the winter night, all will probably be dissolved, all shall
rise again while in the beauteous notes of the actual Bird of Popular Tune, who
never dies! "
THE FINALE
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Written By Anderson