The Sun.
London, England, 1867-09-13 00:00:00

had at borne would be valued beyond measure ;
that I knew at least half a dozen youngsters
who were as well acquainted with the
" Little Match Girl," and the " Ugly Duck," and
the " Poor Idiot Boy," as he was himself, and his
name was as familiar in California as it was in Den-
mark. At this he grasped both my hands, and
looking straight in my face, with a kind of ecstatic
expression, said, " Oh, is it possible ? Do they
really read my books in California ? so far away !
Oh ! I thank you very much. Some of my stories,
I am aware, have been published in New York, but
I did not think they had found their way to the
Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thank you! thank you !
Have you seen my last—the—what do you call it
in English ?—a little animal—"
" Mouse," I suggested.
" No, not a mouse ; a little animal with wings."
" Oh, a bat !"

" Nay, nay, a little animal with wings and many
legs. Dear me ! I forget the name in English,
but you certainly know it in America—a very small
animal !"
In vain I tried to make a selection from all the
little animals of my acquaintance with wings and
many legs. The case was getting both embarrassing
and vexatious. At length a light broke in upon
me.

" A musquito !" I exclaimed, triumphantly.
"Nay, nay !" cried the bothered poet ; " a little
animal with a hard skin on its back. Dear me, I
can't remember the name !"

" Oh, I have it now," said I, really desirous of
relieving his mind—" a flea !"
At this the great improvisator scratched his head,
looked at the ceiling and then at the floor, after
which he took several rapid strides up and down
the room, and struck himself repeatedly on th©
forehead. Suddenly grasping up a pen, he ex-
claimed, somewhat energetically, " Here ! I'll drawf
it for you ; and forthwith he drew on a scrap o
paper a diagram.

" A tumble-bug !" I shouted, astonished at my
former stupidity.
The poet looked puzzled and distressed. Evi-
dently I had not yet succeeded. What could it be ?
" A beetle !" I next ventured to suggest, rather
disappointed at the result of my previous guess.
. . . _

" A beetle I A beetle !—that's it ; now7l remem-
ber—a beetle!" and the delighted author of "The
Beetle" patted me approvingly on the back, and
chuckled gleefully at his own adroit method of ex-
planation. " I'll give you the ' The Beetle,' he said
—" you shall have the only copy in my possession.
But you don't read Danish? What are we to do?
There is a partial translation in French—a mere
notice."

"No matter," I answered. "A specimen of the
Danish language will be very acceptable, and the
book will be a pleasant souvenir of my visit."
He then darted into the next room, tumbled over
a dozen piles of books, then out again, ransacked
the desks, and drawers, and heaps of old papers and
rubbish, talking all the time in his joyous, cheery
way about his books and his travels in Jutland, and
his visit to Charles Dickens, and his intended jour-
ney through Spain, and his delight at meeting a
traveller all the way from California, and whatever
else came iuto his head—all in such mixed-up
broken English that the meaning must have been
utterly lost but for the wonderful expressiveness of
his face and the striking oddity of his motions. It
came to me mesmerically. He seemed like one who
glowed all over with bright and happy thoughts,
which permeated all around him with a new intelli-
gence. His presence shed a light upon others like
the rays that beamed from the eyes of "Little Sun-
shine." The book was found at last, and when he
had written his name in it, with a friendly inscrip-
tion, and
pressed both my hands on the gift, and
patted me once more on the shoulder, and promised
to call at Frankfort on his return from Switzerland
to see his little friends who knew all about the
" Ugly Duck" and the "Little Match Girl," I took
my leave, more delighted, if possible, with the
author than I had ever before been with his books.
Such a man, the brightest, happiest, simplest, most
genial of human beings, is Hans Christian Andersen