TWENTY-SECOND EVENING
"I saw a little girl weeping，"said the Moon："she was weeping over the depravity of the world.She had re- ceived a most beautiful doll as a present.Oh，that was a glorious doll，so fair and delicate!She did not seem creat- ed for the sorrows of this world.But the brothers of the lit- tle girl，those great naughty boys，had set the doll high up in the branches of a tree，and had run away.
"The little girl could not reach up to the doll，and could not help her down，and that is why she was crying.
The doll must certainly have been crying too，for she stretched out her arms among the green branches，and looked quite mournful.Yes，these are the troubles of life of which the little girl had often heard tell.Alas，poor doll!It began to grow dark already;and night would soon come on!Was she to be left sitting there alone on the bough all night long?No，the little maid could not make up her mind to that.'I'll stay with you，'she said，al- though she felt anything but happy in her mind.She could almost fancy distinctly saw little gnomes，with their high-crowned hats，sitting in the bushes;and farther back in the long walk，tall spectres appeared to be dancing.
They came nearer and nearer，and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the doll sat;they laughed scorn- fully，and pointed at her with their fingers.Oh，how frightened the little maid was!'But if one has not done anything wrong，'she thought，'nothing evil can harm one.
I wonder if I have done anything wrong?'And she consid- ered.'Oh，yes!I laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg;she limped along so funnily，I could not help laughing;but it's a sin to laugh at animal.'And she looked up at the doll.'Did you laugh at animals?'she asked;and it seemed as if the doll shook her head."
TWENTY-THIRD EVENING
"I looked down on Tyrol，"said the Moon，"and my 1338 beams caused the dark pines to throw long shadows upon
the rocks.I looked at the pictures of St.Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus that are painted there upon the walls of the houses，colossal figures reaching from the ground to the roof.St.Florian was represented pouring water on the burning house，and the Lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the wayside.To the present gener- ation these are old pictures，but I saw when they were put up，and marked how one followed the other.On the brow of the mountain yonder is perched，like a swallow 's nest，a lonely convent of nuns.Two of the sisters stood up in the tower tolling the bell;they were both young， and the therefore their glances flew over the mountain out into the world.A travelling coach passed by below，the
postilion wound his horn，and the poor nuns looked after the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance，and a tear gleamed in the eyes of the younger one.And the horn sounded faintly and more faint，and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes."
TWENTY-FOURTH EVENING
Hear what the Moon told me."Some years ago，here in Copenhagen，I looked through the window of a mean little room.The father and mother slept，but the little son was awake.I saw the flowered cotton curtains of the bed move，and the child peep forth.At first I thought he was looking at the great clock，which was gaily painted in red and green.At the top sat a cuckoo，below hung the heavy leaden weights，and the pendulum with the polished disk of metal went to and fro，and said，'Tick，tick.'But no，he was not looking at the clock，but at his mother's spinning-wheel，that stood just underneath it.
That was the boy's favourite piece of furniture，but he dared not touch it，for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the knuckles.For hours together，when his mother was spinning，he would sit quietly by her side，watching the whirring spindle and the revolving wheel，and as he sat he thought of many things.Oh，if he might only turn， the wheel himself!Father and mother were asleep：he looked at them，and looked at the spinning-wheel，and presently a little naked foot peeped out of the bed，and then a second foot，and then two little white legs.There he stood.He looked round once more，to see if father and mother were still asleep，—yes，they slept;and now he crept softly，softly，in his short little nightgown，to the spinning-wheel，and began to spin.The thread flew from the wheel，and the wheel whirled faster and faster.I kissed his fair hair and his blue eyes，it was such a pretty picture.
"At that moment the mother awoke.The curtain shook;she looked forth，and fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little spectre.'In Heaven's name!'
she cried，and aroused her husband in a frightened way.
He opened his eyes，rubbed them with his hands，and looked at the brisk little lad.' Why，that is Bertel，'said he.And my eye quitted the poor room，for I have so much to see.At the same moment I looked at the halls of the Vatican，where the marble gods are enthroned.I shone upon the group of the Laocoon;the stone seemed to sigh.I pressed a silent kiss on the lips of the Muses，and they seemed to stir and move.But my rays lingered longest about the Nile group with the colossal god.Lean- ing against the Sphinx，he lies there thoughtful and medi- tative，as if he were thinking on the rolling centuries;
and little love-gods sport with him and with the crocodiles.In the horn of plenty sits with folded arms a little tiny love-god contemplating the great solemn river- god，a true picture of the boy at the spinning-wheel—the features were exactly the same.Charming and lifelike stood the little marble form，and yet the wheel of the year has turned more than a thousand times since the time when it sprang forth from the stone.Just as often as the boy in the little room turned the spinning-wheel had the great wheel murmured，before the age could again call forth marble gods equal to those he afterwards formed.
"Years have passed since all this happened，"the Moon went on to say."Yesterday I looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of Denmark.Glorious woods are there， and high banks，an old knightly castle with red walls， swans floating in the ponds，and in the background ap- pears，among orchards，a little town with a church.Many boats，the crews all furnished with torches，glided over the silent expanse—but these fires had not been kindled for catching fish，for everything had a festive look.Music sounded，a song was sung，and in one of the boats a man stood erect，to whom homage was paid by the rest，a tall sturdy man，wrapped in a cloak.He had blue eyes and long white hair.I knew him，and thought of the Vatican， and of the group of the Nile，and the old marble gods.I thought of the simple little room where little Bertel sat in his nightshirt by the spinning-wheel.The wheel of time has turned，and new gods have come forth from the stone.
From the boats there arose a shout：'Hurrah!Hurrah for Bertel Thorwaldsen!'"