Along time ago， there lived an old poet， athoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting oneevening in his room， a dreadful storm arosewithout， and the rain streamed down from heaven;but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in hischimney-corner， where the fire blazed and theroasting apple hissed.
“Those who have not a roof over their heads willbe wetted to the skin，” said the good old poet.
“Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold， and I'm so wet!” exclaimed suddenly a child thatstood crying at the door and knocking for admittance， while the rain poured down， and thewind made all the windows rattle.
“Poor thing!” said the old poet， as he went to open the door. There stood a little boy，quite naked， and the water ran down from his long golden hair; he trembled with cold， andhad he not come into a warm room he would most certainly have perished in the frightfultempest.
“Poor child!” said the old poet， as he took the boy by the hand. “Come in，come in， andI will soon restore thee! Thou shalt have wine and roasted apples， for thou art verily acharming child!” And the boy was so really. His eyes were like two bright stars; and althoughthe water trickled down his hair， it waved in beautiful curls. He looked exactly like a little angel，but he was so pale， and his whole body trembled with cold. He had a nice little bow in hishand， but it was quite spoiled by the rain， and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran oneinto the other.
the old poet seated himself beside his hearth， and took the little fellow on his lap; hesqueezed the water out of his dripping hair， warmed his hands between his own， and boiledfor him some sweet wine. Then the boy recovered，his cheeks again GREw rosy， he jumpeddown from the lap where he was sitting，and danced round the kind old poet.
“You are a merry fellow，” said the old man. “What's your name?”
“My name is Cupid，” answered the boy. “Don't you know me? There lies my bow;itshoots well， I can assure you! Look， the weather is now clearing up， and the moon isshining clear again through the window.”
“Why， your bow is quite spoiled，” said the old poet.
“That were sad indeed，” said the boy， and he took the bow in his hand and examined iton every side. “Oh， it is dry again， and is not hurt at all; the string is quite tight. I will try itdirectly.” And he bent his bow， took aim，and shot an arrow at the old poet， right into hisheart. “You see now that my bow was not spoiled，” said he laughing; and away he ran.
the naughty boy， to shoot the old poet in that way; he who had taken him into his warmroom， who had treated him so kindly， and who had given him warm wine and the very bestapples!
the poor poet lay on the earth and wept， for the arrow had really flown into his heart.
“Fie!” said he. “How naughty a boy Cupid is! I will tell all children about him， that theymay take care and not play with him， for he will only cause them sorrow and many aheartache.”
And all good children to whom he related this story， took GREat heed of this naughtyCupid; but he made fools of them still， for he is astonishingly cunning. When the universitystudents come from the lectures， he runs beside them in a black coat， and with a book underhis arm. It is quite impossible for them to know him， and they walk along with him arm inarm， as if he， too，were a student like themselves; and then， unperceived， he thrusts anarrow to their bosom. When the young maidens come from being examined by theclergyman，or go to church to be confirmed， there he is again close behind them. Yes， he isforever following people. At the play， he sits in the great chandelier and burns in brightflames， so that people think it is really a flame， but they soon discover it is something else.He roves about in the garden of the palace and upon the ramparts： yes， once he even shotyour father and mother right in the heart. Ask them only and you will hear what they'll tell you.Oh， he is a naughty boy， that Cupid; you must never have anything to do with him. He isforever running after everybody. Only think， he shot an arrow once at your old grandmother!But that is a long time ago， and it is all past now; however， a thing of that sort she neverforgets. Fie， naughty Cupid! But now you know him， and you know， too， how ill-behavedhe is!