On a fine, bright, sunny day in autumn, so bright that any one might
have supposed it was still the middle of summer, a number of pigeons
were hopping about in the nicely kept courtyard of the nobleman's house,
in front of the great steps. Some were black, others white, and some of
various colors, and their plumage glittered in the sunshine. An old
mother pigeon said to her young ones, "Place yourselves in groups! place
yourselves in groups! it has a much better appearance." "What are those little gray creatures which are running about behind
us?" asked an old pigeon with red and green round her eyes. "Little gray
ones, little gray ones," she cried. "They are sparrows--good little creatures enough. We have always had the
character of being very good-natured, so we allow them to pick up some
corn with us; they do not interrupt our conversation, and they draw back
their left foot so prettily." Sure enough, so they did, three times each, and with the left foot too,
and said "tweet," by which we recognize them as the sparrows that were
brought up in the nest on the house that was burned down. "The food here is very good," said the sparrows; while the pigeons
strutted round each other, puffed out their throats, and formed their
own opinions on what they observed. "Do you see the pouter pigeon?" asked one pigeon of another. "Do you see
how he swallows the peas? He takes too much and always chooses the best
of everything. Coo-oo, coo-oo. How the ugly, spiteful creature erects
his crest." And all their eyes sparkled with malice. "Place yourselves
in groups, place yourselves in groups. Little gray coats, little gray
coats. Coo-oo, coo-oo." So they went on, and it will be the same a thousand years hence. The sparrows feasted bravely and listened attentively; they even stood
in ranks like the pigeons, but it did not suit them. So having satisfied
their hunger, they left the pigeons passing their own opinions upon them
to each other and slipped through the garden railings. The door of a
room in the house, leading into the garden, stood open, and one of them,
feeling brave after his good dinner, hopped upon the threshold crying,
"Tweet, I can venture so far." "Tweet," said another, "I can venture that, and a great deal more," and
into the room he hopped. The first followed, and, seeing no one there, the third became
courageous and flew right across the room, saying: "Venture everything,
or do not venture at all. This is a wonderful place--a man's nest, I
suppose; and look! what can this be?" Just in front of the sparrows stood the ruins of the burned cottage;
roses were blooming over it, and their reflection appeared in the water
beneath, and the black, charred beams rested against the tottering
chimney. How could it be? How came the cottage and the roses in a room
in the nobleman's house? And then the sparrows tried to fly over the
roses and the chimney, but they only struck themselves against a flat
wall. It was a picture--a large, beautiful picture which the artist had
painted from the little sketch he had made. "Tweet," said the sparrows, "it is really nothing, after all; it only
looks like reality. Tweet, I suppose that is _the beautiful_. Can you
understand it? I cannot." Then some persons entered the room and the sparrows flew away. Days and
years passed. The pigeons had often "coo-oo-d"--we must not say
quarreled, though perhaps they did, the naughty things! The sparrows had
suffered from cold in the winter and lived gloriously in summer. They
were all betrothed, or married, or whatever you like to call it. They
had little ones, and each considered its own brood the wisest and the
prettiest. One flew in this direction and another in that, and when they met they
recognized each other by saying "tweet" and three times drawing back
the left foot. The eldest remained single; she had no nest nor young
ones. Her great wish was to see a large town, so she flew to Copenhagen. Close by the castle, and by the canal, in which swam many ships laden
with apples and pottery, there was to be seen a great house. The windows
were broader below than at the top, and when the sparrows peeped through
they saw a room that looked to them like a tulip with beautiful colors
of every shade. Within the tulip were white figures of human beings,
made of marble--some few of plaster, but this is the same thing to a
sparrow. Upon the roof stood a metal chariot and horses, and the goddess
of victory, also of metal, was seated in the chariot driving the horses. It was Thorwaldsen's museum. "How it shines and glitters," said the
maiden sparrow. "This must be _the beautiful_,--tweet,--only this is
larger than a peacock." She remembered what her mother had told them in
her childhood, that the peacock was one of the greatest examples of _the
beautiful_. She flew down into the courtyard, where everything also was
very grand. The walls were painted to represent palm branches, and in
the midst of the court stood a large, blooming rose tree, spreading its
young, sweet, rose-covered branches over a grave. Thither the maiden
sparrow flew, for she saw many others of her own kind. "Tweet," said she, drawing back her foot three times. She had, during
the years that had passed, often made the usual greeting to the sparrows
she met, but without receiving any acknowledgment; for friends who are
once separated do not meet every day. This manner of greeting was become
a habit to her, and to-day two old sparrows and a young one returned the
greeting. "Tweet," they replied and drew back the left foot three times. They were
two old sparrows out of the nest, and a young one belonging to the
family. "Ah, good day; how do you do? To think of our meeting here! This
is a very grand place, but there is not much to eat; this is _the
beautiful_. Tweet!" A great many people now came out of the side rooms, in which the marble
statues stood, and approached the grave where rested the remains of the
great master who carved them. As they stood round Thorwaldsen's grave,
each face had a reflected glory, and some few gathered up the fallen
rose leaves to preserve them. They had all come from afar; one from
mighty England, others from Germany and France. One very handsome lady
plucked a rose and concealed it in her bosom. Then the sparrows thought
that the roses ruled in this place, and that the whole house had been
built for them--which seemed really too much honor; but as all the
people showed their love for the roses, the sparrows thought they would
not remain behindhand in paying their respects. "Tweet," they said, and swept the ground with their tails, and glanced
with one eye at the roses. They had not looked at them very long,
however, before they felt convinced that they were old acquaintances,
and so they actually were. The artist who had sketched the rosebush and
the ruins of the cottage had since then received permission to
transplant the bush and had given it to the architect, for more
beautiful roses had never been seen.