TheBirdofPopularSong byHansChristianAndersen（1865） ITiswinter-time.theearthwearsasnowygarment，andlookslikemarblehewnoutoftherock；
theairisbrightandclear；
thewindissharpasawell-temperedsword，andthetreesstandlikebranchesofwhitecoralorbloomingalmondtwigs，andhereitiskeenasontheloftyAlps. thenightissplendidinthegleamoftheNorthernLights，andintheglitterofinnumerabletwinklingstars. Butwesitinthewarmroom，bythehotstove，andtalkabouttheoldtimes.Andwelistentothisstory Bytheopenseawasagiantsgrave；
andonthegrave-moundsatatmidnightthespiritoftheburiedhero，whohadbeenaking.Thegoldencircletgleamedonhisbrow，hishairflutteredinthewind，andhewascladinsteelandiron.Hebenthisheadmournfully，andsighedindeepsorrow，asanunquietspiritmightsigh. Andashipcamesailingby.Presentlythesailorsloweredtheanchorandlanded.Amongthemwasasinger，andheapproachedtheroyalspirit，andsaid， “Whymournestthou，andwhereforedostthousufferthus” Andthedeadmananswered， “Noonehassungthedeedsofmylife；
theyaredeadandforgotten.Songdothnotcarrythemforthoverthelands，norintotheheartsofmen；
thereforeIhavenorestandnopeace.” Andhespokeofhisworks，andofhiswarlikedeeds，whichhiscontemporarieshadknown，butwhichhadnotbeensung，becausetherewasnosingeramonghiscompanions. thentheoldbardstruckthestringsofhisharp，andsangoftheyouthfulcourageofthehero，ofthestrengthoftheman，andoftheGREatnessofhisgooddeeds.Thenthefaceofthedeadonegleamedlikethemarginofthecloudinthemoonlight.Gladlyandofgoodcourage，thearoseinsplendorandinmajesty，andvanishedliketheglancingofthenorthernlight.Noughtwastobeseenbutthegreenturfymound，withthestonesonwhichnoRunicrecordhasbeengraven；
butatthelastsoundoftheharptheresoaredoverthehill，asthoughhehadflutteredfromtheharp，alittlebird，acharmingsinging-bird，withringingvoiceofthethrush，withthemovingvoicepathosofthehumanheart，withavoicethattoldofhome，likethevoicethatisheardbythebirdofpassage.Thesinging-birdsoaredaway，overmountainandvalley，overfieldandwoodhewastheBirdofPopularSong，whoneverdies. Wehearhissongwehearitnowintheroomwhilethewhitebeesareswarmingwithout，andthestormclutchesthewindows.Thebirdsingsnotalonetherequiemofheroes；
hesingsalsosweetgentlesongsoflove，somanyandsowarm，ofNorthernfidelityandtruth.Hehasstoriesinwordsandintones；
hehasproverbsandsnatchesofproverbs；
songswhich，likeRuneslaidunderadeadmanstongue，forcehimtospeak；
andthusPopularSongtellsofthelandofhisbirth. Intheoldheathendays，inthetimesoftheVikings，thepopularspeechwasenshrinedintheharpofthebard. Inthedaysofknightlycastles，whenthestrongestfistheldthescalesofjustice，whenonlymightwasright，andapeasantandadogwereofequalimportance，wheredidtheBirdofSongfindshelterandprotectionNeitherviolencenorstupiditygavehimathought. Butinthegabledwindowoftheknightlycastle，theladyofthecastlesatwiththeparchmentrollbeforeher，andwrotedowntheoldrecollectionsinsongandlegend，whilenearherstoodtheoldwomanfromthewood，andthetravellingpeddlerwhowentwanderingthroughthecountry.Asthesetoldtheirtales，thereflutteredaroundthem，withtwitteringandsong，theBirdofPopularSong，whoneverdiessolongastheearthhasahilluponwhichhisfootmayrest. Andnowhelooksinuponusandsings.Withoutarethenightandthesnow-storm.HelaystheRunesbeneathourtongues，andweknowthelandofourhome.Heavenspeakstousinournativetongue，inthevoiceoftheBirdofPopularSong.Theoldremembrancesawake，thefadedcolorsglowwithafreshlustre，andstoryandsongpourusablesseddraughtwhichliftsupourmindsandourthoughts，sothattheeveningbecomesasaChristmasfestival. thesnow-flakeschaseeachother，theicecracks，thestormruleswithout，forhehasthemight，heislordbutnottheLORDOFALL. Itiswintertime.thewindissharpasatwo-edgedsword，thesnow-flakeschaseeachother；
itseemsasthoughithadbeensnowingfordaysandweeks，andthesnowlieslikeaGREatmountainoverthewholetown，likeaheavydreamofthewinternight.Everythingontheearthishiddenaway，onlythegoldencrossofthechurch，thesymboloffaith，arisesoverthesnowgrave，andgleamsintheblueairandinthebrightsunshine. Andovertheburiedtownflythebirdsofheaven，thesmallandtheGREat；
theytwitterandtheysingasbesttheymay，eachbirdwithhisbeak. Firstcomesthebandofsparrowstheypipeateverytrifleinthestreetsandlanes，inthenestsandtheho