Résultats lu par "Sam Kusi" dans Toutes les catégories

Once upon a time there was a darning needle who imagined she was so fine that she really was a sewing needle. "Be careful and hold me tightly!" she warned the fingers that picked her up. "Don't drop me! If I fall on the floor you may never find me again; that's how fine I am!" "That's what you think!" replied the fingers, and squeezed her around the waist.

There was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a drawbridge which was but seldom let down: not all guests are good people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he approach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings of beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood smoldered.

There was sorrow in the house; there was sorrow in every heart, for the youngest child, a four-year-old boy, the joy and future hope of his parents, was dead. They had two older daughters, the eldest of whom was to be confirmed that year; sweet, good girls, they both were; but the child one has lost is always the most precious, and this was not only the youngest but the only son. It was indeed a heavy affliction. The sisters grieved as the young grieve, awed by the sorrow of their parents; the father's head bowed in grief; but most of all the mother suffered.

Of course, you must know what a microscope is, that round magnifying glass which makes everything look hundreds of times larger than it really is. If you take it and hold it close to your eye and look at a single drop of ditchwater, you'll see thousands of strange little creatures, such as you couldn't imagine living in a drop of water. But they are really there. They look almost like a plateful of shrimp, all jumping and crowding against each other, and they are so ferocious they tear off each other's arm and legs; yet in their own way they are happy and merry.

In Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close by the Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, and Prussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castle with cannons, "Boom, boom," which is as if they said, "Good-day." And the cannons of the old castle answer "Boom," which means "Many thanks." In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered with ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance of a high-road.

There was a large party for children at the house of the merchant; rich people's children and important people's children were all there. Their host, the merchant, was a learned man; his father had insisted that he have a college education. You see, his father had been only a cattle dealer, but he had always been honest and thrifty. This business had brought him a fortune, and his son, the merchant, had later managed to increase this fortune. Clever as he was, he also had a kind heart, but there was less talk about his heart than about his money.

The Butterfly (Danish: "Sommerfulgen") is a short fantasy story for children by the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. It was first published in 1861.
The story's title character and protagonist is a butterfly who wishes to marry a flower. Unfortunately for him, the expectations which he has of his future wife are very high. He decides that none of the flowers that he sees are worthy of being his bride. Consequently, he never marries and ends his days as an old bachelor.

This is a story of the sand dunes of Jutland, but it doesn't begin there; no, it begins far away to the south, in Spain. The ocean is the highway between the two countries. So now let your thoughts journey to Spain!

Yes, that was little Tuck. As a matter of fact, his name wasn't really Tuck, but before he could speak plainly he called himself Tuck. That was supposed to mean "Carl," but "Tuck" does just as well if one only knows it.

It is in the hot countries that the sun burns down in earnest, turning the people there a deep mahogany-brown. In the hottest countries of all they are seared into negroes, but it was not quite that hot in this country to which a man of learning had come from the colder north. He expected to go about there just as he had at home, but he soon discovered that this was a mistake. He and other sensible souls had to stay inside. The shutters were drawn and the doors were closed all day long. It looked just as if everyone were asleep or away from home.

Charles John Huffam Dickens (7 February 1812 – 9 June 1870) was an English writer and social critic. He created some of the world's best-known fictional characters and is regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era. His works enjoyed unprecedented popularity during his lifetime, and by the twentieth century critics and scholars had recognised him as a literary genius. His novels and short stories enjoy lasting popularity. I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree.

Iron John is about taking men back, through myth and legend, to the source of their masculinity, and finding a middle path between the greater awareness of the 'sensitive new age guy', and the power and vitality of the warrior. The Iron John story has been around in one form or another for thousands of years.

The Twelve Huntsmen starts right where many fairy tales end, with a prince and princess in love, planning their wedding. This happy event is cancelled by the sudden death of the king's father, who, on his deathbed, requests his son to marry another bride.

In the narrow streets of the big town, toward evening when the sun was setting and the clouds shone like gold on the chimney tops, people would hear a strange sound like that of a church bell. But they heard it only for a few moments before it was lost in the rumble of city carriages and the voices of the multitudes, for such noises are very distracting. "Now the evening bell is ringing," people used to say. "The sun is setting."

Anne Lisbeth's complexion was like peaches and cream; her eyes were bright, her teeth shiny white; she was young, gay, and beautiful to look upon; her steps were light and her mind was even lighter. What would come of all this? "That awful brat," people said about her baby; and indeed he wasn't pretty, so he was left with the ditchdigger's wife.

The King of the Golden Mountain: a evil stepmother kills her stepson and makes her daughter think that she killed him. The stepmother than cooks him for dinner for the rest of the family. Her daughter finds her stepbrother's bones and puts them underneath the juniper tree.

When a princess refuses to marry any of the princes her father has lined up, he marries her to a poor musician who takes her to his hovel home and makes her work for her keep. But this poor musician seems to know a bit too much about the infamous King Grisly-Beard... and he keeps his face covered a lot of the time.

This prophetic Brothers Grimm fairytale is about the supposedly dimmest and youngest of three brothers, who due to an act of kindness, is gifted a golden goose by an old man. The parable is about not being greedy trying to pluck a golden feather will only get you stuck in a parade of shame.

Up north in Jutland there is a place known as the wild moor. There is a convent there. Many years ago there was a ship stranded not too far off shore. Instead of helping, the bishop’s men went and stole and plundered and murdered. Those poor people were all left dead and bloody.

The Angel (Danish: Engelen) is a literary fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. The tale was first published with three others in New Fairy Tales. First Volume. First Collection by C.A. Reitzel in November 1843. The four tales were received by the Danish critics with great acclaim. A child has died, and an angel is escorting him to Heaven. They wander over the earth for a while, visiting the child's favorite places. Along the way they gather flowers to transplant into the gardens of Heaven. The angel takes the child to a poverty-stricken area where a dead field lily lies in a trash heap.