The persons
they represent have been dead and buried long since. But I knew this
lady many years ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century." [Illustration: "Thank you for the tin soldier, my little friend," said
the old man....]

Under a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered flowers,
which were, no doubt, half a century old too, at least they appeared so. And the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands turned
round, and as time passed on everything in the room grew older, but no
one seemed to notice it. "They say at home," said the little boy, "that you are very lonely." "Oh," replied the old man, "I have pleasant thoughts of all that is past
recalled by memory, and now you too are come to visit me, and that is
very pleasant." Then he took from the bookcase a book full of pictures representing long
processions of wonderful coaches such as are never seen at the present
time, soldiers like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving
banners. The tailors had a flag with a pair of scissors supported by two
lions, and on the shoemakers' flag there were not boots but an eagle
with two heads, for the shoemakers must have everything arranged so that
they can say, "This is a pair." What a picture book it was! And then the
old man went into another room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very
pleasant, certainly, to be in that old house. "I cannot endure it," said the tin soldier, who stood on a shelf; "it is
so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to live in a family, and
I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear it. The whole day is long
enough, but the evening is longer. It is not here as it was in your
house opposite, when your father and mother talked so cheerfully
together, while you and all the dear children made such a delightful
noise. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has
friendly looks or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but the
grave. Oh! I cannot bear it." "You must not look on the sorrowful side so much," said the little boy. "I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old,
pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits." "Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them," said the tin soldier;
"and I cannot bear it." "You must bear it," said the little boy. Then the old man came back with
a pleasant face, and brought with him beautiful preserved fruits as
well as apples and nuts, and the little boy thought no more of the tin
soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was! And after he returned home,
and while days and weeks passed, a great deal of nodding took place from
one house to the other, and then the little boy went to pay another
visit. The carved trumpeters blew: "Tanta-ra-ra, there is the little
boy. Tanta-ra-ra." The swords and armor on the old knights' pictures
rattled, the silk dresses rustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and
the old chairs that had the gout in their backs cried "Creak"; it was
all exactly like the first time, for in that house one day and one hour
were just like another. "I cannot bear it any longer," said the tin soldier; "I have wept tears
of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the wars and lose an arm
or a leg; that would be some change. I cannot bear it. Now I know what
it is to have visits from one's old recollections and all they bring
with them. I have had visits from mine, and you may believe me it is not
altogether pleasant. I was very nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you
all in your house opposite, as if you were really present. "It was Sunday morning, and you children stood round the table, singing
the hymn that you sing every morning. You were standing quietly with
your hands folded, and your father and mother were looking just as
serious, when the door opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not
two years old, was brought into the room. You know she always dances
when she hears music and singing of any sort, so she began to dance
immediately, although she ought not to have done so; but she could not
get into the right time because the tune was so slow, so she stood first
on one foot and then on the other and bent her head very low, but it
would not suit the music. You all stood looking grave, although it was
very difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down
from the table and got a bruise, which is still there. I know it was not
right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen, keeps
running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that bring
so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on Sundays,
and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old comrade is,
the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy. I cannot endure
this life." "You are given away," said the little boy; "you must stay. Don't you see
that?" Then the old man came in with a box containing many curious
things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards so large and
so richly gilded that none are ever seen like them in these days. And
there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was opened, and
inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old man played, the
piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the picture he had
bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled brightly as he nodded at
it and said, "Ah, she could sing that tune." "I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" cried the tin soldier as
loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor. Where could he
have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy searched, but he
was gone and could not be found. "I shall find him again," said the old
man. But he did not find him; the tin soldier had fallen through a crack
between the boards and lay there now as in an open grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week passed, and
many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite frozen, so
that the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes and rub a hole
to peep through at the old house. Snowdrifts were lying in all the
scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with snow as
if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was at home, for the old man
was dead. In the evening the old man was to be taken to the country to be buried
there in his own grave; so they carried him away. No one followed him,
for all his friends were dead, and the little boy kissed his hand to his
old friend as he saw him borne away. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and from his
window the little boy saw the people carrying away the pictures of old
knights and ladies, the flowerpots with the long ears, the old chairs,
and the cupboards. Some were taken one way, some another. _Her_
portrait, which had been bought at the picture dealer's, went back again
to his shop, and there it remained, for no one seemed to know her or to
care for the old picture.