theSaucyBoy byHansChristianAndersen（1835） ONCEuponatimetherewasanoldpoet，oneofthoserightgoodoldpoets. Oneevening，ashewassittingathome，therewasaterriblestormgoingonoutside；
therainwaspouringdown，buttheoldpoetsatcomfortablyinhischimney-corner，wherethefirewasburningandtheappleswereroasting. “therewillnotbeadrythreadleftonthepoorpeoplewhoareoutinthisweather，”hesaid. “Oh，openthedoorIamsocoldandwetthrough，”calledalittlechildoutside.Itwascryingandknockingatthedoor，whilsttherainwaspouringdownandthewindwasrattlingallthewindows. “Poorcreature”saidthepoet，andgotupandopenedthedoor.Beforehimstoodalittleboy；
hewasnaked，andthewaterflowedfromhislongfairlocks.Hewasshiveringwithcold；
ifhehadnotbeenletin，hewouldcertainlyhaveperishedinthestorm. “Poorlittlething”saidthepoet，andtookhimbythehand. “Cometome；
Iwillsoonwarmyou.Youshallhavesomewineandanapple，foryouaresuchaprettyboy.” Andhewas，too.Hiseyessparkledliketwobrightstars，andalthoughthewaterfloweddownfromhisfairlocks，theystillcurledquitebeautifully. Helookedlikealittleangel，butwaspalewithcold，andtremblingallover.Inhishandheheldasplendidbow，butithadbeenentirelyspoiltbytherain，andthecoloursoftheprettyarrowshadrunintooneanotherbygettingwet. theoldmansatdownbythefire，andtakingthelittleboyonhisknee，wrungthewateroutofhislocksandwarmedhishandsinhisown. Hethenmadehimsomehotspicedwine，whichquicklyrevivedhim；
sothatwithreddeningcheeks，hesprangupontheflooranddancedaroundtheoldman. “Youareamerryboy，”saidthelatter. “Whatisyourname” “MynameisCupid，”heanswered. “Dontyouknowmethereliesmybow.Ishootwiththat，youknow.Look，theweatherisgettingfineagainthemoonisshining.” “Butyourbowisspoilt，”saidtheoldpoet. “Thatwouldbeunfortunate，”saidthelittleboy，takingitupandlookingatit. “Oh，itsquitedryandisntdamagedatall.Thestringisquitetight；
Illtryit.”So，drawingitback，hetookanarrow，aimed，andshotthegoodoldpoetrightintheheart. “Doyouseenowthatmybowwasnotspoilt”hesaid，and，loudlylaughing，ranaway.Whatanaughtyboytoshoottheoldpoetlikethat，whohadtakenhimintohiswarmroom，hadbeensogoodtohim，andhadgivenhimthenicestwineandthebestapple thegoodoldmanlayuponthefloorcrying；
hewasreallyshotintheheart. “Oh”hecried， “whatanaughtyboythisCupidisIshalltellallthegoodchildrenaboutthis，sothattheytakecarenevertoplaywithhim，lesthehurtthem.” Andallgoodchildren，bothgirlsandboys，whomhetoldaboutthis，wereontheirguardagainstwickedCupid；
buthedeceivesthemallthesame，forheisverydeep.Whenthestudentscomeoutofclass，hewalksbesidethemwithabookunderhisarm，andwearingablackcoat.Theycannotrecognizehim.Andthen，iftheytakehimbythearm，believinghimtobeastudenttoo，hesticksanarrowintotheirchest.Andwhenthegirlsgotochurchtobeconfirmed，heisamongstthemtoo.Infact，heisalwaysafterpeople.Hesitsinthelargechandelierinthetheatreandblazesaway，sothatpeoplethinkitisalamp；
buttheysoonfindouttheirmistake.Hewalksaboutinthecastlegardenandonthepromenades.Yes，onceheshotyourfatherandyourmotherinthehearttoo.Justaskthem，andyouwillhearwhattheysay.Ohheisabadboy，thisCupid，andyoumustneverhaveanythingtodowithhim，forheisaftereveryone.Justthink，heevenshotanarrowatoldgrandmother；
butthatwasalongtimeago.Thewoundhaslongbeenhealed，butsuchthingsareneverforgotten. NowyouknowwhatabadboythiswickedCupidis.