theShepherdsStoryoftheBondofFriendship byHansChristianAndersen（1842） thelittledwellinginwhichwelivedwasofclay，butthedoor-postswerecolumnsofflutedmarble，foundnearthespotonwhichitstood.Theroofslopednearlytotheground.Itwasatthistimedark，brown，andugly，buthadoriginallybeenedofbloomingoliveandlaurelbranches，broughtfrombeyondthemountains.Thehousewassituatedinanarrowgorge，whoserockywallsrosetoaperpendicularheight，nakedandblack，whileroundtheirsummitscloudsoftenhung，lookinglikewhitelivingfigures.Notasingingbirdwaseverheardthere，neitherdidmendancetothesoundofthepipe.Thespotwasonesacredtooldentimes；
evenitsnamerecalledamemoryofthedayswhenitwascalled“Delphi.”Thenthesummitsofthedark，sacredmountainswerecoveredwithsnow，andthehighest，mountParnassus，glowedlongestintheredeveninglight.Thebrookwhichrolledfromitnearourhouse，wasalsosacred.HowwellIcanremembereveryspotinthatdeep，sacredsolitudeAfirehadbeenkindledinthemidstofthehut，andwhilethehotasheslaythereredandglowing，thebreadwasbakedinthem.Attimesthesnowwouldbepiledsohigharoundourhutasalmosttohideit，andthenmymotherappearedmostcheerful.Shewouldholdmyheadbetweenherhands，andsingthesongssheneversangatothertimes，fortheTurks，ourmasters，wouldnotallowit.Shesang， “OnthesummitofmountOlympus，inaforestofdwarffirs，layanoldstag.Hiseyeswereheavywithtears，andglitteringwithcolorslikedewdrops；
andtherecamebyaroebuck，andsaid，Whatailestthee，thatthouweepestblueandredtearsAndthestaganswered，TheTurkhascometoourcity；
hehaswilddogsforthechase，agoodlypack.Iwilldrivethemawayacrosstheislandscriedtheyoungroebuck；
Iwilldrivethemawayacrosstheislandsintothedeepsea.Butbeforeeveningtheroebuckwasslain，andbeforenightthehuntedstagwasdead.” Andwhenmymothersangthus，hereyeswouldbecomemoist；
andonthelongeyelashesweretears，butsheconcealedthemandwatchedtheblackbreadbakingintheashes.ThenIwouldclenchmyfist，andcry， “WewillkilltheseTurks”Butsherepeatedthewordsofthesong， “Iwilldrivethemacrosstheislandstothedeepsea；
butbeforeeveningcametheroebuckwasslain，andbeforethenightthehuntedstagwasdead.” Wehadbeenlonelyinourhutforseveraldaysandnightswhenmyfathercamehome.IknewhewouldbringmesomeshellsfromthegulfofLepanto，orperhapsaknifewithashiningblade.Thistimehebrought，underhissheep-skincloak，alittlechild，alittlehalf-nakedgirl.Shewaswrappedinafur；
butwhenthiswastakenoff，andshelayinmymotherslap，threesilvercoinswerefoundfastenedinherdarkhair；
theywereallherpossessions.MyfathertoldusthatthechildsparentshadbeenkilledbytheTurks，andhetalkedsomuchaboutthemthatIdreamedofTurksallnight.Hehimselfhadbeenwounded，andmymotherbounduphisarm.Itwasadeepwound，andthethicksheep-skincloakwasstiffwithcongealedblood.Thelittlemaidenwastobemysister.Howprettyandbrightshelookedevenmymotherseyeswerenotmoregentlethanhers.Anastasia，asshewascalled，wastobemysister，becauseherfatherhadbeenunitedtominebyanoldcustom，whichwestillfollow.Theyhadswornbrotherhoodintheiryouth，andthemostbeautifulandvirtuousmaidenintheneighborhoodwaschosentopertheactofconsecrationuponthisbondoffriendship.Sonowthislittlegirlwasmysister.Shesatinmylap，andIbroughtherflowers，andfeathersfromthebirdsofthemountain.WedranktogetherofthewatersofParnassus，anddweltanyyearsbeneaththelaurelroofofthehut，while，winterafterwinter，mymothersanghersongofthestagwhoshedredtears.ButasyetIdidnotunderstandthatthesorrowsofmyowncountrymenweremirroredinthosetears. OnedaytherecametoourhutFranks，menfromafarcountry，whosedresswasdifferenttoours.Theyhadtentsandbedswiththem，carriedbyhorses；
andtheywereaccompaniedbymorethantwentyTurks，allarmedwithswordsandmuskets.TheseFrankswerefriendsofthePacha，andhadlettersfromhim，commandinganescortforthem.Theyonlycametoseeourmountain，toascendParnassusamidthesnowandclouds，andtolookatthestrangeblackrockswhichraisedtheirsteepsidesnearourhut.Theycouldnotfindroominthehut，norendurethesmokethatrolledalongtheceilingtillitfounditswayoutatthelowdoor；
sotheypitchedtheirtentsonasmallspaceoutsideourdwelling.Roastedlambsandbirdswerebroughtforth，andstrong，sweetwine，ofwhichtheTurksareforbiddentopartake. Whentheydeparted，Iaccompaniedthemforsomedistance，carryingmylittlesisterAnastasia，wrappedinagoat-skin，onmyback.OneoftheFranki