“It is a GREat and pleasant thought to know thata shooting star falls upon our graves. On minecertainly none will fall—no sunbeam brings thanks tome， for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. Ishall not get the patent lacquer，” said Ole， “for myfate on earth is only grease， after all.”Second Visit
IT was New Year's day， and I went up on thetower. Ole spoke of the toasts that were drunk onthe transition from the Old Year into the New—fromone grave into the other， as he said. And he toldme a story about the glasses， and this story had avery deep meaning. It was this：
“When on the New Year's night the clock strikes twelve， the people at the table rise upwith full glasses in their hands， and drain these glasses， and drink success to the New Year.They begin the year with the glass in their hands; that is a good beginning for drunkards.They begin the New Year by going to bed， and that's a good beginning for drones. Sleep issure to play a GREat part in the New Year， and the glass likewise. Do you know what dwells inthe glass?” asked Ole. “I will tell you. There dwell in the glass， first， health， and thenpleasure， then the most complete sensual delight; and misfortune and the bitterest woedwell in the glass also. Now， suppose we count the glasses—of course I count the differentdegrees in the glasses for different people.
“You see， the first glass， that's the glass of health， and in that the herb of health isfound growing. Put it up on the beam in the ceiling， and at the end of the year you may besitting in the arbor of health.
“If you take the second glass—from this a little bird soars upward， twittering in guilelesscheerfulness， so that a man may listen to his song， and perhaps join in 'Fair is life! nodowncast looks! Take courage， and march onward!'
“Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin， who cannot certainly be called an angelchild， for there is goblin blood in his veins， and he has the spirit of a goblin—not wishing tohurt or harm you， indeed， but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'll sit at your ear andwhisper merry thoughts to you; he'll creep into your heart and warm you， so that you growvery merry， and become a wit， so far as the wits of the others can judge.
“In the fourth glass is neither herb， bird， nor urchin. In that glass is the pause drawn byreason， and one may never go beyond that sign.
“Take the fifth glass， and you will weep at yourself， you will feel such a deep emotion; orit will affect you in a different way. Out of the glass there will spring with a bang PrinceCarnival， nine times and extravagantly merry. He'll draw you away with him; you'll forget yourdignity， if you have any， and you'll forget more than you should or ought to forget. All isdance， song and sound： the masks will carry you away with them， and the daughters ofvanity， clad in silk and satin， will come with loose hair and alluring charms; but tearyourself away if you can!
“the sixth glass! Yes， in that glass sits a demon， in the form of a little， well dressed，attractive and very fascinating man， who thoroughly understands you， aGREes with you ineverything， and becomes quite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him， to give youlight as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint who was allowed tochoose one of the seven deadly sins， and who accordingly chose drunkenness， whichappeared to him the least， but which led him to commit all the other six. The man's blood ismingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass， and with that the germ of all evil shootsup within us; and each one grows up with a strength like that of the grains of mustard-seed，and shoots up into a tree， and spreads over the whole world： and most people have nochoice but to go into the oven， to be re-cast in a new form.
“That's the history of the glasses，” said the tower-keeper Ole， “and it can be told withlacquer or only with GREase; but I give it you with both!”Third Visit1
ON this occasion I chose the general “moving-day” for my visit to Ole， for on that day it isanything but aGREeable down in the streets in the town; for they are full of sweepings，shreds， and remnants of all sorts， to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in which one hasto wade about. But this time I happened to see two children playing in this wilderness ofsweepings. They were playing at “going to bed，” for the occasion seemed especially favorablefor this sport. They crept under the straw， and drew an old bit of ragged curtain overthemselves by way of coverlet. “It was splendid!” they said; but it was a little too strong forme， and besides， I was obliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.
“It's moving-day to day，” he said; “streets andhouses are like a dust-bin—a large dust-bin; butI'm content with a cartload. I may get somethinggood out of that， and I really did get somethinggood out of it once. Shortly after Christmas I wasgoing up the street; it was rough weather， wetand dirty—the right kind of weather to catch cold in.The dustman was there with his cart， which wasfull， and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of the cart stood a fir tree， quiteGREen still， and with tinsel on its twigs; it hadbeen used on Christmas eve， and now it was thrown out into the street， and the dustmanhad stood it up at the back of his cart. It was droll to look at， or you may say it was mournful—all depends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought about it， and thought thisand that of many things that were in the cart： or I might have done so， and that comes tothe same thing. There was an old lady's glove， too： I wonder what that was thinking of?Shall I tell you? The glove was lying there， pointing with its little finger at the tree. 'I'm sorryfor the tree，' it thought; 'and I was also at the feast， where the chandeliers glittered. My lifewas， so to speak， a ball night—a pressure of the hand， and I burst! My memory keepsdwelling upon that， and I have really nothing else to live for!' This is what the glovethought， or what it might have thought. 'That's a stupid affair with yonder fir tree，' said thepotsherds. You see， potsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in the dust-cart，'they said， 'one ought not to give one's self airs and wear tinsel. I know that I have been usefulin the world—far more useful than such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken，and I don't think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that， the fir tree looked very well： it waslike a little poetry in the dust-heap; and truly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way is difficult and troublesome then， and I feel obliged to run away out of theconfusion; or， if I am on the tower， I stay there and look down， and it is amusingenough.