A Lost Wand

More than a hundred years ago, at the foot of a wild mountain in Norway,

stood an old castle, which even at the time I write of was so much out of

repair as in some parts to be scarcely habitable.

In a hall of this castle a party of children met once on Twelfth-night to

play at Christmas games and dance with little Hulda, the only child of the

lord and lady.

The winters in Norway are very cold, and the snow and ice lie for months

on the ground; but the night on which these merry children met it froze

with more than ordinary severity, and a keen wind shook the trees

without, and roared in the wide chimneys like thunder.

Little Hulda's mother, as the evening wore on, kept calling on the

servants to heap on fresh logs of wood, and these, when the long flames

crept around them, sent up showers of sparks that lit up the brown walls,

ornamented with the horns of deer and goats, and made it look as

cheerful and gay as the faces of the children. Hulda's grandmother had

sent her a great cake, and when the children had played enough at all the

games they could think of, the old gray-headed servants brought it in and

set it on the table, together with a great many other nice things such as

people eat in Norway--pasties made of reindeer meat, and castles of the

sweet pastry sparkling with sugar ornaments of ships and flowers and

crowns, and cranberry pies, and whipped cream as white as the snow

outside; but nothing was admired so much as the great cake, and when

the children saw it they set up a shout which woke the two hounds who

were sleeping on the hearths, and they began to bark, which roused all

the four dogs in the kennels outside who had not been invited to see

either the cake or the games, and they barked, too, shaking and shivering

with cold, and then a great lump of snow slid down from the roof, and fell

with a dull sound like distant thunder on the pavement of the yard.

"Hurrah!" cried the children, "the dogs and the snow are helping us to

shout in honor of the cake."

All this time more and more nice things were coming in--fritters, roasted

grouse, frosted apples, and buttered crabs. As the old servants came

shivering along the passages, they said, "It is a good thing that children

are not late with their suppers; if the confects had been kept long in the

larder they would have frozen on the dishes."

Nobody wished to wait at all; so, as soon as the supper was ready, they

all sat down, more wood was heaped on to the fire, and when the moon

shone in at the deep casements, and glittered on the dropping snowflakes

outside, it only served to make the children more merry over their supper

to think how bright and warm everything was inside.

This cake was a real treasure, such as in the days of the fairies, who still

lived in certain parts of Norway, was known to be of the kind they loved.

A piece of it was always cut and laid outside in the snow, in case they

should wish to taste it. Hulda's grandmother had also dropped a ring into

this cake before it was put into the oven, and it is well known that

whoever gets such a ring in his or her slice of cake has only to wish for

something directly, and the fairies are bound to give it, _if they possibly

can_. There have been cases known when the fairies could not give it,

and then, of course, they were not to blame.

On this occasion the children said: "Let us all be ready with our wishes,

because sometimes people have been known to lose them from being so

long making up their minds when the ring has come to them."

"Yes," cried the eldest boy. "It does not seem fair that only one should

wish. I am the eldest. I begin. I shall wish that Twelfth-night would come

twice a year."

"They cannot give you that, I am sure," said Friedrich, his brother, who

sat by him.

"Then," said the boy, "I wish father may take me with him the next time

he goes out bear-shooting."