Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
ready even slower. This will help you to relax even more.
Before we begin, I would like you to close your
eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply. Take
a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your breath
for a few seconds more and then release and breathe out.
Do this a few times if you need to. While
you listen to the music and you listen to my voice,
give yourself time to let your body relax and your
mind settle. It's important that we allow time for us
cells to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease. And
now it's time for this week's story.
Speaker 2: The old house in the street up there was an
old and very old house. It was almost three hundred
years old. For that might be known by reading the
great beam on which the date of the year was carved,
together with tulips and hoppins. There were whole verses spelled
as in former times, and over every window was a
distorted face cut out in the beam. The one story
stood forward a great way over the other, and directly
under the eaves was a leaden spout with a dragon's head.
The rain water should have run out of the mouth,
but it ran out of the belly, for there was
a hole in the spout. All the other houses in
the street were so new and so neat, with large
window panes and smooth walls, one could easily see that
they would have nothing to do with the old house.
They certainly thought, how long is that old, decayed thing
to stand here as a spectacle in the street. And
then the projecting windows stand so far out that no
one can see from our windows what happens in that direction.
The steps are as broad as those of a palace
and as high as to a church tower. The iron
railings looked just like the door to an old family vault.
And then they have brass tops. That's so stupid. On
the other side of the street were also new and
neat houses, and they thought just as the others did.
But at the window opposite the old house there sat
a little boy with fresh rosy cheeks and bright beaming eyes.
He certainly liked the old house best, and that both
in sunshine and moonshine. And when he looked across at
the wall where the mortar had fallen out, he could
sit and find out there the strangest figures imaginable, exactly
as the street had appeared before, with steps, projecting windows
and pointed gables. He could see soldiers with halberds, and
spouts where the water ran like dragons and serpents. That
was a house to look at. And there lived an
old man who wore plush breeches, and he had a
coat with large brass buttons, and a wig that one
could see was a real wig. Every morning there came
an old fellow to him, who put his rooms in
order and went on errands. Otherwise, the old man in
the plush breeches was quite alone in the old house now.
And then he came to the window and looked out,
and the little boy nodded to him, and the old
man nodded again, and so they became acquaintances, and then
they were friends, although they had never spoken to each other,
but that made no difference. The little boy heard his
parents say, the old man opposite is very well off,
but he is so very very lonely. The sunday following,
the little boy took something and wrapped it up in
a piece of paper, went downstairs and stood in the doorway,
and when the man who went on errands came past,
he said to him, I say, master, will you give
this to the old man over the way from me?
I have two pewter soldiers. This is one of them,
and he shall have it, for I know he is
so very very lonely. And the old errand man looked
quite pleased, nodded, and took the pewter soldier over to
the old house. Afterwards there came a message. It was
to ask if the little boy himself had not a
wish to come over and pay a visit. And so
he got permission of his parents, and then went over
to the old house. In the brass balls on the
iron railings shone much brighter than ever one would have thought.
They were polished on account of the visit, and it
was as if the carved out trumpeters. For there were
trumpeters who stood in tulips carved out on the door,
blew with all their might. Their cheeks appeared so much
rounder than before. Yes, they blew Tretatra. The little boy
comes Tretatra. And then the door opened. The whole passage
was hung with portraits of knights and armor and ladies
and silken gowns. And the armor rattled, and the silken
gowns rustled. And then there was a flight of stairs
which went a good way upwards and a little way downwards.
And then one came on a balcony which was in
a very dilapidated state, sure another with large holes and
long crevices. But grass grew there and leaves out of
them altogether. For the whole balcony outside the yard, and
the walls were overgrown with so much green stuff that
it looked like a garden, only a balcony. Here stood
old flower pots with faces and asses ears, and the
flowers grew just as they liked. One of the pots
was quite overrun on all sides with pinks, that is
to say, with the green part. Shoot stood by shoot,
and it said, quite distinctly, the air has cherished me.
The sun has kissed me and promised me a little
flower on Sunday, Little flower on Sunday. And then they
entered a chamber where the walls were covered with hog's
leather and printed with gold flowers. The gilding decays, but
hog's leather stays, said the walls. And there stood easy
chairs with such high backs and so carved out, and
with arms on both sides. Sit down, Sit down, said they. Oh,
how I creak. Now, I shall certainly get the gout
like the old clothes. Press off. And then the little
boy came into the room where the projecting windows were
and where the old man sat. I thank you for
the pewter soldier, my little friend, said the old man.
And I thank you because you come over to me.
Thank gee, thank gee, or cranky cranky sounded from all
the furniture. There was so much of it that each
article stood in the other's way to get a look
at the little boy. In the middle of the wall
hung a picture representing a beautiful lady, so young, so glad,
but dressed quite as in former times, with clothes that
stood quite stiff, and with powder in her hair. She
neither said thankee, thankee, nor cranky cranky, but looked with
her mild eyes at the little boy, who directly asked
the old man, where did you get her? Yonder at
the broker's, said the old man, where there are so
many pictures hanging. No one knows or cares about them,
for they are all of them buried. But I knew
her in by gone days, and now she has been
dead and gone these fifty years. Under the picture, in
a glazed frame, there hung a bouquet of withered flowers.
They were almost fifty years old. They looked so very old.
The pendulum of the great clock went to and fro,
and the hands turned, and everything in the room became
came still older. But they did not observe it. They
say at home, said the little boy, that you are
so very very lonely. Oh, said he the old thoughts,
with what they may bring with them, come and visit me.
And now you also come. I am very well off.
Then he took a book with pictures in it down
from the shelf. There were whole long processions and pageants
with the strangest characters which one never sees nowadays, Soldiers
like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving flags.
The tailors had theirs with a pair of shears held
by two lions, and the shoemaker's theirs without boots, but
with an ear that had two heads. For the shoemakers
must have everything so that they can say it is
a pair. Yes, that was a picture book. The old
man now went into the other room to fetch preserves,
apples and nuts. Yes, it was delightful over there in
the old house. I cannot bear it any longer, said
the pewter soldier who sat on the drawers. It is
so lonely and melancholy here. But when one has been
in a family circle, one cannot accustom one's self to
this life. I cannot bear it any longer. The whole
day is so long, and the evenings are still longer.
Speaker 1: Here.
Speaker 2: It is not at all as it is over the
way at your home, where your father and mother spoke
so pleasantly, and where you and all your sweet children
made such a delightful noise. Nay, how lonely the old
man is. Yes, do you think that he gets kisses?
Do you think he gets mild eyes or a Christmas tree?
He will get nothing but a grave. I can bear
it no longer. You must not let it grieve you
so much, said the little boy. I find it so
very delightful here. And then all the old thoughts, with
what they may bring with them, they come and visit here. Yes,
it's all very well, but I see nothing of them,
and I don't know them, said the pewter soldier. I
cannot bear it, but you must, said the little boy.
Then in came the old man with the most pleased
and happy face, the most delicious preserves apples and nuts,
And so the little boy thought no more about the
pewter soldier. The little boy returned home, happy and please,
and weeks and days passed away, and nods were made
to the old house and from the old house, and
then the little boy went over there again. The carved
trumpeters blew, They're a triatra, there is the little boy.
They're a triatra. And the swords and armor on the
knight's portraits rattled, and the silk gowns rustled, the hog's
leathers spoke, and the old chairs had the gout in
their legs and rheumatism in their backs. Ah, it was
exactly like the first time. For over there, one day,
an hour was just like another. I cannot bear it,
said the pewter soldier. I have shed pewter tears. It
is too melancholy. Rather, let me go to the wars
and lose arms and legs. It would at least be
a change. I cannot bear it longer. Now I know
what it is to have a visit from one's old thoughts,
with what they may bring with them. I have had
a visit from mine, and you may be sure it
is no pleasant thing. In the end, I was at
last about to jump down from the drawers. I saw
you all over there at home, so distinctly as if
you really were here. It was again that Sunday morning.
All you children stood before the table and sung your psalms,
as you do every morning. You stood devoutly with folded hands,
and father and mother were just as pious. And then
the door was opened, and little sister Mary, who is
not two years old yet, and who always dances when
she hears music or singing of whatever kind it may be,
was put into the room, though she ought not to
have been there. And then she began to dance, but
could not keep time because the tones were so long.
And then she stood first on the one leg and
bent her head forwards, and then on the other leg
and bent her head forwards. But all would not do.
You stood very seriously all together, although it was difficult enough.
But I laughed to myself, and then I fell off
the table and got a bump, which I have still,
for it was not right of me to laugh. But
the whole now passes before me again in thought and
everything that I have lived to see. And these are
the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them.
Tell me, if you still sing on sundays, tell me
something about little Mary, and how my comrade, the other
pewter soldier lives. Yes, he is happy enough, that's sure.
I cannot bear it any longer. You are given away
as a present, said the little boy. You must remain.
Can you not understand that the old man now came
with a drawer in which there was much to be seen,
both tin boxes and balsam boxes, old cards, so large
and so gilded, such as one never sees them now.
And several drawers were opened, and the piano was opened.
It had landscapes on the inside of the lid, and
it was so hoarse when the old man played on it.
And then he hummed a song yes, she could sing, that,
said he, and nodded to the portrait which he had
bought at the broker's. And the old man's eyes shone
so bright. I will go to the wars. I will
go to the wars, shouted the pewter soldier as loud
as he could, and threw himself off the drawers, right
down on the floor. What became of him? The old
man sought, and the little boy sought. He was away,
and he stayed away. I shall find him, said the
old man, But he never found him. The floor was
too open. The pewter soldier had fallen through a crevice,
and there he lay as in an open tomb. That
day passed, and the little boy went home, and that
week passed, and several weeks too. The windows were quite frozen.
The little boy was obliged to sit and breathe on
them to get a peep hole over to the old house.
And there the snow had been blown into all the
carved work and inscriptions. It lay quite up over the steps,
just as if there was no one at home. Nor
was there any one at home. The old man was dead.
In the evening there was a hearse scene before the door,
and he was borne into it in his coffin. He
was now to go out into the country to lie
in his grave. He was driven out there, but no
one followed. All his friends were dead, and the little
boy kissed his hand to the coffin as it was
driven away. Some days afterwards there was an auction at
the old house, and the little boy saw from his
window how they carried the old knights and the old
ladies away, the flower pots with the long ears, the
old chairs, and the old clothes presses. Something came here,
and something came there. The portrait of her, who had
been found at the brokers, came to the brokers again,
and there it hung, for no one knew her more.
No one cared about the old picture. In the spring
they pulled the house down for it, as people said,
it was a ruin. One could see from the street
right into the room, with a hog's leather hanging which
was slashed and torn, and the green grass and leaves
about the balcony hung quite wild about the falling beams.
And then it was put to rights. There was a relief,
said the neighboring houses. A fine house was built there,
with large windows and smooth white walls. But before it,
where the old house had in fact stood, was a
little garden laid out, and a wild grape vine ran
up the wall of the neighboring house. Before the garden
there was a large iron railing with an iron door.
It looked quite splendid, and people stood still and peeped in,
and the sparrows hung by scores in the vine and
chattered away at each other as well as they could.
But it was not about the old house, for they
could not remember it. So many years had passed, so
many that the little boy had grown up to a
whole man, yes, a clever man, and a pleasure to
his parents. And he had just been married, and together
with his little wife, had come to live in the
house here where the garden was. And he stood by
her there whilst she planted a field flower that she
found so pretty. She planted it with her little hand
and pressed the earth around it with her fingers. Oh
what was that she had stuck herself? There sat something
pointed straight out of the soft mold. It was yues
guess it was the pewter soldier he that was lost
up at the old man's and had tumbled and turned
about amongst the timber and the rubbish, and had at
last laid for many years in the ground. The young
wife wiped the dirt off the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine handkerchief. It had
such a delightful smell that it was to the pewter
soldier just as if he had awaked from a trance.
Let me see him, said the young man. He laughed,
and then shook his head. Nay, it cannot be he
but he reminds me of a story about a pewter
soldier which I had when I was a little boy.
And then he told his wife about the old house
and the old man, and about the pewter soldier that
he sent over to him because he was so very
very lonely, And he told it as correctly as it
had really been, so that the tears came into the
eyes of his young wife on account of the old
house and the old man. It may possibly be, however,
that it is the same pewter soul, said she. I
will take care of it and remember all that you
have told me, But you must show me the old
man's grave. That I do not know it, said he.
And no one knows it all his friends were dead.
No one took care of it. And I was then
a little boy. How very very lonely he must have been,
said she, very very lonely, said the pewter soldier. But
it is delightful not to be forgotten. Delightful shouted something
close by, But no one except the pewter soldier saw
that it was a piece of the hog's leather hangings.
It had lost all its gilding. It looked like a
piece of wet clay. But it had an opinion, and
it gave it. The guilding decays, but hog's leather stays this.
The pewter soldier did not believe. The old house in
the street up there was an old, very old house.
It was almost three hundred years old, for that might
be known by reading the great beam, on which the
date of the year was carved, together with tulips and hoppins.
There were whole verses spelled as in former times, and
over every window was a distorted face cut out in
the beam. The one story stood forward a great way
over the other, and directly under the eaves was a
leaden spout with a dragon's head. The rain water should
have run out of the mouth, but it ran out
of the belly, for there was a hole in the spout.
All the other houses in the street were so new
and so neat, with large window panes and smooth walls,
one could easily see that they would have nothing to
do with the old house. They certainly thought, how long
is that old, decayed thing to stand here as a
spectacle in the street. And then the projecting windows stand
so far out that no one can see from our
windows what happens in that direction. The steps are as
broad as those of a palace, and as high as
to a church tower. The iron railings looked just like
the door to an old family vault. And then they
have brass tops. That's so stupid. On the other side
of the street were also new and neat houses, and
they thought just as the others did. But at the
window opposite the old house there sat a little boy
with fresh rosy cheeks and bright beaming eyes. He certainly
liked the old house best, and that both in sunshine
and moonshine, And when he looked across at the wall
where the mortar had fallen out, he could sit and
find out there the strangest figures imaginable exactly as the
street had appeared before, with steps, projecting windows and pointed gables.
He could see soldiers with halberds, and spouts where the
water ran like dragons and serpents. That was a house
to look at. And there lived an old man who
wore plush breeches, and he had a coat with large
brass buttons, and a wig that one could see was
a real wig. Every morning there came an old fellow
to him, who put his rooms in order and went
on errands. Otherwise, the old man in the plush breeches
was quite alone in the old house now. And then
he came to the window and looked out, and the
little boy nodded to him, and the old man nodded again,
and so they became acquaintances, and then they were friends,
although they had never spoken to each other, but that
made no difference. The little boy heard his parents say,
the old man opposite is very well off, but he
is so very, very lonely. The sunday following, the little
boy took something and wrapped it up in a piece
of paper, went downstairs and stood in the doorway, And
when the man who went on errands came past, he
said to him. I say, master, will you give this
to the old man over the way from me? I
have two pewter soldiers. This is one of them, and
he shall have it, for I know he is so
very very lonely. And the old errand man looked quite pleased, nodded,
and took the pewter soldier over to the old house.
Afterwards there came a message. It was to ask if
the little boy himself had not a wish to come
over and pay a visit. And so he got permission
of his parents, and then went over to the old house.
In the brass balls on the iron railings shone much
brighter than ever one would have thought. They were polished
on account of the visit. And it was as if
the carved out trumpeters, for there were trumpeters who stood
in tulips carved out on the door, blew with all
their might. Their cheeks appeared so much rounder than before. Yes,
they blew, tretatra, The little boy comes, tretatra. And then
the door opened. The whole passage was hung with portraits
of knights and armor and ladies and silken gowns, And
the armor rattled, and the silken gowns rustled, and then
there was a flight of stairs which went a good
way upwards and a little way downwards. And then one
came on a balcony which was in a very dilapidated state,
sure enough, with large holes and long crevices. But grass
grew there and leaves out of them altogether. For the
whole balcony outside the yard, and the walls were overgrown
with so much green stuff that it looked like a garden,
only a balcony. Here stood old flower pots with faces
and asses ears, and the flowers grew just as they liked.
One of the pots was quite overrun on all sides
with pinks, that is to say, with the green part.
Shoot stood by shoot, and it said, quite distinctly, the
air has cherished me, the sun has kissed me, and
promised me a little flower on Sunday, little flower on Sunday.
And then they entered a chamber where the walls were
covered with hog's leather and printed with gold flowers. The
gilding decay, yes, but hog's leather stays, said the walls.
And there stood easy chairs with such high backs and
so carved out, and with arms on both sides. Sit down,
Sit down, said they, Oh, how I creak, now, I
shall certainly get the gout like the old clothes press off.
And then the little boy came into the room where
the projecting windows were and where the old man sat.
I thank you for the pewter soldier, my little friend,
said the old man. And I thank you because you
come over to me. Thank gee, thank gee, or cranky
cranky sounded from all the furniture. There was so much
of it that each article stood in the other's way
to get a look at the little boy. In the
middle of the wall hung a picture representing a beautiful lady,
so young, so glad, but dressed quite as in former times,
with clothes that stood quite stiff, and with powder in
her hair. She neither said thankee, thankee, nor cranky cranky,
but looked with her mild eyes at the little boy,
who directly asked the old man, where did you get her?
Yonder at the brokers, said the old man. Where there
are so many pictures hanging, no one knows or cares
about them, for they are all of them buried. But
I knew her in bygone days, and now she has
been dead and gone these fifty years. Under the picture
in a glazed frame there hung a bouquet of withered flowers.
They were almost fifty years old. They looked so very old.
The pendulum of the great went to and fro, and
the hands turned, and everything in the room became still older.
But they did not observe it. They say at home,
said the little boy, that you are so very very lumly. Oh,
said he the old thoughts, with what they may bring
with them, come and visit me. And now you also come.
I am very well off. Then he took a book
with pictures in it down from the shelf. There were
whole long processions and pageants with the strangest characters which
one never sees nowadays, soldiers like the knave of clubs,
and citizens with waving flags. The tailors had theirs with
a pair of shears held by two lions, and the
shoemakers theirs without boots, but with an eagle that had
two heads. For the shoemakers must have everything so that
they can say it is a pair. Yes, that was
a picture book. The old man now went into the
other room to fetch preserves, apples and nuts. Yes, it
was delightful over there in the old house. I cannot
bear it any longer, said the pewter soldier, who sat
on the drawers. It is so lonely and melancholy here.
But when one has been in a family circle, one
cannot accustom one's self to this life. I cannot bear
it any longer. The whole day is so long, and
the evenings are still longer.
Speaker 1: Here.
Speaker 2: It is not at all as it is over the
way at your home, where your father and mother spoke
so pleasantly, and where you and all your sweet children
made such a delightightful noise. Nay, how lonely the old
man is. Do you think that he gets kisses? Do
you think he gets mild eyes? Or a Christmas tree?
He will get nothing but a grave. I can bear
it no longer. You must not let it grieve you
so much, said the little boy. I find it so
very delightful here. And then all the old thoughts, with
what they may bring with them, they come and visit here. Yes,
it's all very well, but I see nothing of them,
and I don't know them, said the pewter soldier. I
cannot bear it, but you must, said the little boy.
Then in came the old man, with the most pleased
and happy face, the most delicious preserves, apples and nuts.
And so the little boy I thought no more about
the pewter soldier. The little boy returned home, happy and pleased,
And weeks and days passed away, and nods were made
to the old house and from the old house, and
then the little boy went over there again. The carved
trumpeters blew, they're a triatra, there is the little boy.
They're a triatra. And the swords and armor on the
knight's portraits rattled, and the silk gowns rustled, the hog's
leathers spoke, and the old chairs had the gout in
their legs and rheumatism in their backs. Ah, it was
exactly like the first time. For over there, one day,
an hour was just like another. I cannot bear it,
said the pewter soldier. I have shed pewter tears. It
is too melancholy. Rather, let me go to the wars
and lose arms and legs. It would at least be
a chee. I cannot bear it longer. Now I know
what it is to have a visit from one's old thoughts,
with what they may bring with them. I have had
a visit from mine, and you may be sure it
is no pleasant thing. In the end, I was at
last about to jump down from the drawers. I saw
you all over there at home, so distinctly as if
you really were here. It was again that Sunday morning.
All you children stood before the table and sung your psalms,
as you do every morning. You stood devoutly with folded hands,
and father and mother were just as pious. And then
the door was opened, and little sister Mary, who is
not two years old yet, and who always dances when
she hears music or singing of whatever kind it may be,
was put into the room, though she ought not to
have been there. And then she began to dance, but
could not keep time because the tones were so long.
And then she stood first on the one leg and
bent her head forwards, and then on the other leg
and bent her head forwards. But all would not do.
You stood very seriously all together, although it was difficult enough.
But I laughed to myself, and then I fell off
the table and got a bump, which I have still,
for it was not right of me to laugh. But
the whole now passes before me again in thought and
everything that I have lived to see. And these are
the old thoughts with what they may bring with them.
Tell me if you still sing on Sundays, tell me
something about Little Mary and how my comrade, the other
pewter soldier lives. Yes, he is happy enough, that's sure.
I cannot bear it any longer. You are given away
as a present, said the little boy. You must remain.
Can you not understand that? The old man now came
with a drawer in which there was much to be seen,
both tin boxes and balsam boxes, old cards, so large
and so gilded, such as one never sees them now.
And several drawers were opened, and the piano was opened.
It had landscapes on the inside of the lid, and
it was so hoarse when the old man played on it.
And then he hummed a song. Yes she could sing, that,
said he, and nodded to the portrait which he had
bought at the broker's. And the old man's eyes shone
so bright. I will go to the wars. I will
go to the wars, shouted the pewter soul as loud
as he could, and threw himself off the drawers, right
down on the floor. What became of him? The old
man sought, and the little boy sought he was away,
and he stayed away. I shall find him, said the
old man, but he never found him. The floor was
too open. The pewter soldier had fallen through a crevice,
and there he lay as in an open tomb. That
day passed, and the little boy went home, and that
week passed, and several weeks too. The windows were quite frozen.
The little boy was obliged to sit and breathe on them,
to get a peep hole over to the old house,
and there the snow had been blown into all the
carved work and inscriptions. It lay quite up over the steps,
just as if there was no one at home. Nor
was there anyone at home. The old man was dead.
In the evening. There was a hearse seene before the door,
and he was borne into it in his coffin. He
was now to go out into the country to lie
in his grave. He was driven out there, but no
one followed. All his friends were dead, and the little
boy kissed his hand to the coffin as it was
driven away. Some days afterwards there was an auction at
the old house, and the little boy saw from his
window how they carried the old knights and the old
ladies away the flower pots with the long ears, the
old chairs, and the old clothes presses. Something came here,
and something came there. The portrait of her, who had
been found at the brokers, came to the brokers again,
and there it hung, for no one knew her more,
no one cared about the old picture. In the spring
they pulled the house down, for as people said, it
was a ruin. One could see from the street right
into the room, with a hog's leather hanging which was
slashed and torn, and the green grass and leaves about
the balcony hung quite wild about the falling beams. And
then it was put to rights. There was a relief,
said the neighboring houses. A fine house was built there,
with large windows and smooth white walls. But before it,
where the old house had in fact stood, was a
little garden laid out, and a wild grape vine ran
up the wall of the neighboring house. Before the garden
there was a large iron railing with an iron door.
It looked quite splendid, and people stood still and peeped in,
and the sparrows hung by scores in the vine and
chattered away at each other as well as they could.
But it was not about the old house, for they
could not remember it. So many years had passed, so
many that the little boy had grown up to a
whole man, yes, a clever man, and a pleasure to
his parents. And he had just been married, and together
with his little wife, had come to live in the
house here where the garden was. And he stood by
her there whilst she planted a field flower that she
found so pretty. She planted it with her little hand
and pressed the earth around it with her fingers. Oh
what was that she had stuck herself? There sat something
pointed straight out of the soft mold. It was, yes,
guess it was the pewter soldier. He that was lost
up at the old man's and had tumbled and turned
about amongst the timber and the rubbish, and had at
last laid for many years in the ground. The young
wife wiped the dirt off the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine handkerchief. It had
such a delightful smell that it was to the pewter
soldier just as if he had awaked from a trance.
Let me see him, said the young man. He laughed,
and then shook his head. Nay, it cannot be. He
but he reminds me of a story about a pewter soldier,
which I had when I was a little boy. And
then he told his wife about the old house and
the old man, and about the pewter soldier that he
sent over to him because he was so very very lonely,
And he told it as correctly as it had really been,
so that the tears came into the eyes of his
young wife on account of the old house and the
old man. It may possibly be, however, that it is
the same pewter soldier, said she. I will take care
of it and remember all that you have told me,
But you must show me the old man's grave. That
I do not know it, said he. And no one
knows it. All his friends were dead, no one took
care of it. And I was then a little boy.
How very very lonely he must have been, said she,
very very lonely, said the pewter soldier. But it is
delightful not to be forgotten. Delightful shouted something close by,
But no one except the pewter soldier saw that it
was a piece of the hog's leather hangings. It had
lost all its gilding. It looked like a piece of
wet clay. But it had an opinion, and it gave it.
The gilding decays, but Hogg's leather stays this. The pewter
soldier did not believe