ONCE upon a time there was an old poet， oneof those right good old poets.
One evening， as he was sitting at home， therewas a terrible storm going on outside; the rain waspouring down， but the old poet sat comfortably inhis chimney-corner， where the fire was burningand the apples were roasting.
“there will not be a dry thread left on the poor people who are out in this weather，” hesaid.
“Oh， open the door! I am so cold and wet through，” called a little child outside. It wascrying and knocking at the door， whilst the rain was pouring down and the wind was rattling allthe windows.
“Poor creature!” said the poet， and got up and opened the door. Before him stood a littleboy; he was naked， and the water flowed from his long fair locks. He was shivering withcold; if he had not been let in， he would certainly have perished in the storm.
“Poor little thing!” said the poet， and took him by the hand. “Come to me; I will soonwarm you. You shall have some wine and an apple， for you are such a pretty boy.”
And he was， too. His eyes sparkled like two bright stars， and although the water floweddown from his fair locks， they still curled quite beautifully.
He looked like a little angel， but was pale with cold， and trembling all over. In his hand heheld a splendid bow， but it had been entirely spoilt by the rain， and the colours of the prettyarrows had run into one another by getting wet.
the old man sat down by the fire， and taking the little boy on his knee， wrung the waterout of his locks and warmed his hands in his own.
He then made him some hot spiced wine， which quickly revived him; so that withreddening cheeks， he sprang upon the floor and danced around the old man.
“You are a merry boy，” said the latter. “What is your name?”
“My name is Cupid，” he answered. “Don't you know me? there lies my bow. I shoot withthat， you know. Look， the weather is getting fine again—the moon is shining.”
“But your bow is spoilt，” said the old poet.
“That would be unfortunate，” said the little boy， taking it up and looking at it. “Oh， it'squite dry and isn't damaged at all. The string is quite tight; I'll try it.” So， drawing it back，he took an arrow， aimed， and shot the good old poet right in the heart. “Do you see nowthat my bow was not spoilt?” he said， and， loudly laughing， ran away. What a naughty boyto shoot the old poet like that， who had taken him into his warm room， had been so good tohim， and had given him the nicest wine and the best apple!
the good old man lay upon the floor crying; he was really shot in the heart. “Oh!” hecried， “what a naughty boy this Cupid is! I shall tell all the good children about this， so thatthey take care never to play with him， lest he hurt them.”
And all good children， both girls and boys， whom he told about this， were on their guardagainst wicked Cupid; but he deceives them all the same， for he is very deep. When thestudents come out of class， he walks beside them with a book under his arm， and wearing ablack coat. They cannot recognize him. And then， if they take him by the arm， believing himto be a student too， he sticks an arrow into their chest. And when the girls go to church to beconfirmed， he is amongst them too. In fact， he is always after people. He sits in the largechandelier in the theatre and blazes away， so that people think it is a lamp; but they soonfind out their mistake. He walks about in the castle garden and on the promenades. Yes， oncehe shot your father and your mother in the heart too. Just ask them， and you will hear whatthey say. Oh! he is a bad boy， this Cupid， and you must never have anything to do withhim， for he is after every one. Just think， he even shot an arrow at old grandmother; butthat was a long time ago. The wound has long been healed， but such things are neverforgotten.
Now you know what a bad boy this wicked Cupid is.
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