關於安徒生童話英語故事
大多數學生對聽故事、講故事非常感興趣,英語故事是學生喜歡的學習材料。在一定條件下,通過講故事、表演故事等形式,能激發學生學習英語的興趣,從而提高課堂教學的效率。本文是關於安徒生童話英語故事，希望對大家有幫助!
IN a house， with a large courtyard， in aprovincial town， at that time of the year in whichpeople say the evenings are growing longer， afamily circle were gathered together at their oldhome. A lamp burned on the table， although theweather was mild and warm， and the long curtainshung down before the open windows， and withoutthe moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.
But they were not talking of the moon， but of a large， old stone that lay below in thecourtyard not very far from the kitchen door. The maids often laid the clean copper saucepansand kitchen vessels on this stone， that they might dry in the sun， and the children werefond of playing on it. It was， in fact， an old grave-stone.
“Yes，” said the master of the house， “I believe the stone came from the graveyard of theold church of the convent which was pulled down， and the pulpit， the monuments， and thegrave-stones sold. My father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used forpaving-stones， but that one stone was preserved whole， and laid in the courtyard.”
“Any one can see that it is a grave-stone，” said the eldest of the children; “therepresentation of an hour-glass and part of the figure of an angel can still be traced， but theinscription beneath is quite worn out， excepting the name 'Preben，' and a large 'S' close byit， and a little farther down the name of 'Martha' can be easily read. But nothing more， andeven that cannot be seen unless it has been raining， or when we have washed the stone.”
“Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben Schwane and hiswife.”
the old man who said this looked old enough to be the grandfather of all present in theroom.
“Yes，” he continued， “these people were among the last who were buried in thechurchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy old couple， I can remember them wellin the days of my boyhood. Every one knew them， and they were esteemed by all. They werethe oldest residents in the town， and people said they possessed a ton of gold， yet theywere always very plainly dressed， in the coarsest stuff， but with linen of the purestwhiteness. Preben and Martha were a fine old couple， and when they bothsat on the bench，at the top of the steep stone steps， in front of their house， with the branches of the linden-tree waving above them， and nodded in a gentle， friendly way to passers by， it really madeone feel quite happy. They were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them， andin their benevolence there was judgment as well as true Christianity. The old woman diedfirst; that day is still quite vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy， and had accompanied myfather to the old man's house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of death just as we arrivedthere. The corpse lay in a bedroom， near to the one in which we sat， and the old man was inGREat distress and weeping like a child. He spoke to my father， and to a few neighbors whowere there， of how lonely he should feel now she was gone， and how good and true she， hisdead wife， had been during the number of years that they had passed through life together，and how they had become acquainted， and learnt to love each other. I was， as I have said，a boy， and only stood by and listened to what the others said; but it filled me with a strangeemotion to listen to the old man， and to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spokeof the days of their courtship， of how beautiful she was， and how many little tricks he hadbeen guilty of， that he might meet her. And then he talked of his wedding-day; and his eyesbrightened， and he seemed to be carried back， by his words， to that joyful time. And yetthere she was， lying in the next room， dead—an old woman， and he was an old man，speaking of the days of hope， long passed away. Ah， well， so it is; then I was but a child，and now I am old， as old as Preben Schwane then was. Time passes away， and all thingschanged. I can remember quite well the day on which she was buried， and how Old Prebenwalked close behind the coffin.
“A few years before this time the old couple had had their grave-stone prepared， with aninscription and their names， but not the date. In the evening the stone was taken to thechurchyard， and laid on the grave. A year later it was taken up， that Old Preben might be laidby the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth， they left behind them far lessthan people had believed they possessed; what there was went to families distantly related tothem， of whom， till then， no one had ever heard. The old house， with its balcony ofwickerwork， and the bench at the top of the high steps， under the lime-tree， wasconsidered， by the road-inspectors， too old and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards，when the same fate befell the convent church， and the graveyard was destroyed， the grave-stone of Preben and Martha， like everything else， was sold to whoever would buy it. And so ithappened that this stone was not cut in two as many others had been， but now lies in thecourtyard below， a scouring block for the maids， and a playground for the children. Thepaved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his wife; no one thinks ofthem any more now.”
And the old man who had spoken of all this shook his head mournfully， and said， “Forgotten! Ah， yes， everything will be forgotten!” And then the conversation turned onother matters.
But the youngest child in the room， a boy， with large， earnest eyes， mounted upon achair behind the window curtains， and looked out into the yard， where the moon was pouringa flood of light on the old gravestone，—the stone that had always appeared to him so dull andflat， but which lay there now like a GREat leaf out of a book of history. All that the boy hadheard of Old Preben and his wife seemed clearly defined on the stone， and as he gazed on it，and glanced at the clear， bright moon shining in the pure air， it was as if the light of God'scountenance beamed over His beautiful world.
“Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!” still echoed through the room， and in thesame moment an invisible spirit whispered to the heart of the boy， “Preserve carefully theseed that has been entrusted to thee， that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Throughthee， my child， shall the obliterated inscription on the old， weather-beaten grave-stone goforth to future generations in clear， golden characters. The old pair shall again wanderthrough the streets arm-in-arm， or sit with their fresh， healthy cheeks on the bench underthe lime-tree， and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this hour shall ripen in thecourse of years into a beautiful poem. The beautiful and the good are never forgotten， theylive always in story or in song.”
在一個小鄉鎮裏，有一個人自己擁有一幢房子。有一天晚上，他全家的人圍坐在一起。這正是人們所常說的“夜長”的季節。這種時刻既溫暖，又舒適。燈亮了;長長的窗簾拉下來了。窗子上擺着許多花盆;外面是一片美麗的月光。不過他們並不是在談論這件事。他們是在談論着一塊古老的大石頭。這塊石頭躺在院子裏、緊靠着廚房門旁邊。
女傭人常常把擦過了的銅製的用具放在上面曬;孩子們也喜歡在上面玩耍。事實上它是一個古老的墓碑。“是的，”房子的主人說，“我相信它是從那個拆除了的老修道院搬來的。人們把裏面的宣講臺、紀念牌和墓碑全都賣了!我去世了的父親買了好幾塊墓石，每塊都打斷了，當做鋪道石用，不過這塊墓石留下來了，一直躺在院子那兒沒有動。”“人們一眼就可以看出，這是一塊墓石，”最大的一個孩子說，“我們仍然可以看出它上面刻得有一個滴漏1和一個安琪兒的片斷。不過它上面的字差不多全都模糊了，只剩下卜列本這個名字和後邊的一個大字母S，以及離此更遠一點的”瑪爾塔“!此外甚麼東西也看不見了。只有在下了雨，或者當我們把它洗淨了以後，我們才能看得清楚。”
這是古代一種最原始的鐘。它是由上下兩個玻璃球作成的，由一個小頸聯在一起。上面的球裝滿沙子或水銀，通過這小頸流到下面的一個球裏去。這個過程所花的時間，一般是一小時。時刻就以這流盡的過程爲單位計算。古代教堂裏常用這種鍾。“天哪，這就是卜列本·斯萬尼和他妻子的墓石!”一個老人插進來說。他是那麼老，簡直可以作爲這所房子裏所有人的祖父。“是的，他們是最後埋在這個老修道院墓地裏的一對夫婦。他們從我小時起就是一對老好人。大家都認識他們，大家都喜歡他們。他們是這小城裏的一對元老。大家都說他們所有的金子一個桶也裝不完。但是他們穿的衣服卻非常樸素，總是粗料子做的;不過他們的桌布、被單等總是雪白的。他們——卜列本和瑪爾塔——是一對可愛的夫婦!當他們坐在屋子面前那個很高的石臺階上的一條凳子上時，老菩提樹就把枝子罩在他們頭上;他們和善地、溫柔地對你點着頭——這使你感到愉快。他們對窮人非常好，給他們飯吃，給他們衣服穿。他們的慈善行爲充分地表示出他們的善意和基督精神。”太太先去世!那一天我記得清清楚楚。我那時是一個很小的孩子，跟着爸爸一起到老卜列本家裏去，那時她剛剛合上眼睛，這老頭兒非常難過，哭得像一個小孩子。她的屍體還放在睡房裏，離我們現在坐的這地方不遠。他那時對我的爸爸和幾個鄰人說，他此後將會多麼孤獨，她曾經多麼好，他們曾經怎樣在一起生活了多少年，他們是怎樣先認識的，然後又怎樣相愛起來。我已經說過，我那時很小，只能站在旁邊聽。我聽到這老人講話，我也注意到，當他一講起他們的訂婚經過、她是怎樣的美麗、他怎樣找出許多天真的託詞去會見她的時候，他就活潑起來，他的雙頰就漸漸紅潤起來;這時我就感到非常驚奇。於是他就談起他結婚的那個日子;他的眼睛這時也發出閃光來。他似乎又回到那個快樂的年代裏去了。但是她——一個老女人——卻躺在隔壁房間裏，死去了。他自己也是一個老頭兒，談論着過去那些充滿了希望的日子!是的，是的，世事就是這樣!“那時候我還不過是一個小孩子，不過現在我也老了，老了——像卜列本·斯萬尼一樣。時間過去了，一切事情都改變了!我記得她入葬那天的情景：卜列本·斯萬尼緊跟在棺材後邊。好幾年以前，這對夫婦就準備好了他們的墓碑，在那上面刻好了他們的名字和碑文——只是沒有填上死的年月。在一天晚間，這墓碑被擡到教堂的墓地裏去，放在墳上。一年以後，它又被揭開了，老卜列本又在他妻子的身邊躺下去了。”他們不像人們所想像的和所講的那樣，身後並沒有留下許多錢財。剩下的一點東西都送給了遠房親戚——直到那時人們才知道有這些親戚。那座木房子——和它的臺階頂上菩提樹下的一條凳子——已經被市政府拆除了，因爲它太腐朽，不能再讓它存留下去，後來那個修道院也遭受到同樣的命運：那個墓地也剷平了，卜列本和瑪爾塔的墓碑，像別的墓碑一樣，也賣給任何願意買它的人了。現在事又湊巧，這塊墓石居然沒有被打碎，給人用掉;它卻仍然躺在這院子裏，作爲女傭人放廚房用具和孩子們玩耍的地方。在卜列本和他的妻子安息的地上現在鋪出了一條街道。誰也不再記起他們了。“
講這故事的老人悲哀地搖搖頭。“被遺忘了!一切東西都會被遺忘了!”他說。
於是他們在這房間裏談起別的事情來。不過那個最小的孩子——那個有一雙嚴肅的大眼睛的孩子——爬到窗簾後邊的一個椅子上去，朝院子裏眺望。月光明朗地正照在這塊大墓石上——對他說來。這一直是一塊空洞和單調的石頭。不過它現在躺在那兒像一整部歷史中的一頁。這孩子所聽到的關於老卜列本和他的妻子的故事似乎就寫在它上面。他望了望它，然後又望了望那個潔白的月亮，那個明朗高闊的天空。這很像造物主的面孔，向這整個的世界微笑。“被遺忘了!一切東西都會被遺忘了!”這是房間裏的人所說的一句話。這時候，有一個看不見的安琪兒飛進來，吻了這孩子的前額，同時低聲地對他說：“好好地保管着這顆藏在你身體內的種子吧，一直到它成熟的時候!通過你，我的孩子，那塊老墓石上模糊的碑文，它的每個字，將會射出金光，傳到後代!那對老年夫婦將會手挽着手，又在古老的街上走過，微笑着，現出他們新鮮和健康的面孔，在菩提樹下，在那個高臺階上的凳子上坐着，對過往的人點頭——不論是貧或是富。從這時開始，這顆種子，到了適當的時候，將會成熟，開出花來，成爲一首詩。美的和善的東西是永遠不會給遺忘的;它在傳說和歌謠中將會獲得永恆的生命。”
關於安徒生童話英語故事：The Daisy 雛菊NOW listen! In the country, close by the high road, stood a farmhouse; perhaps you have passed by and seen it yourself. There was a little flower garden with painted wooden palings in front of it; close by was a ditch, on its fresh green bank grew a little daisy; the sun shone as warmly and brightly upon it as on the magnificent garden flowers, and therefore it thrived well. One morning it had quite opened, and its little snow-white petals stood round the yellow centre, like the rays of the sun. It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass, and that it was a poor despised flower; on the contrary, it was quite happy, and turned towards the sun, looking upward and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air.
The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great holiday, but it was only Monday. All the children were at school, and while they were sitting on the forms and learning their lessons, it sat on its thin green stalk and learnt from the sun and from its surroundings how kind God is, and it rejoiced that the song of the little lark expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own feelings. With a sort of reverence the daisy looked up to the bird that could fly and sing, but it did not feel envious. “I can see and hear,” it thought; “the sun shines upon me, and the forest kisses me. How rich I am!”
In the garden close by grew many large and magnificent flowers, and, strange to say, the less fragrance they had the haughtier and prouder they were. The peonies puffed themselves up in order to be larger than the roses, but size is not everything! The tulips had the finest colours, and they knew it well, too, for they were standing bolt upright like candles, that one might see them the better. In their pride they did not see the little daisy, which looked over to them and thought, “How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the pretty bird will fly down and call upon them. Thank God, that I stand so near and can at least see all the splendour.” And while the daisy was still thinking, the lark came flying down, crying “Tweet,” but not to the peonies and tulips—no, into the grass to the poor daisy. Its joy was so great that it did not know what to think. The little bird hopped round it and sang, “How beautifully soft the grass is, and what a lovely little flower with its golden heart and silver dress is growing here.” The yellow centre in the daisy did indeed look like gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as silver.
How happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea. The bird kissed it with its beak, sang to it, and then rose again up to the blue sky. It was certainly more than a quarter of an hour before the daisy recovered its senses. Half ashamed, yet glad at heart, it looked over to the other flowers in the garden; surely they had witnessed its pleasure and the honour that had been done to it; they understood its joy. But the tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces were pointed and red, because they were vexed. The peonies were sulky; it was well that they could not speak, otherwise they would have given the daisy a good lecture. The little flower could very well see that they were ill at ease, and pitied them sincerely.
Shortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a large sharp knife. She went to the tulips and began cutting them off, one after another. “Ugh!” sighed the daisy, “that is terrible; now they are done for.”
The girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad that it was outside, and only a small flower—it felt very grateful. At sunset it folded its petals, and fell asleep, and dreamt all night of the sun and the little bird.
On the following morning, when the flower once more stretched forth its tender petals, like little arms, towards the air and light, the daisy recognised the bird’s voice, but what it sang sounded so sad. Indeed the poor bird had good reason to be sad, for it had been caught and put into a cage close by the open window. It sang of the happy days when it could merrily fly about, of fresh green corn in the fields, and of the time when it could soar almost up to the clouds. The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage. The little daisy would have liked so much to help it, but what could be done? Indeed, that was very difficult for such a small flower to find out. It entirely forgot how beautiful everything around it was, how warmly the sun was shining, and how splendidly white its own petals were. It could only think of the poor captive bird, for which it could do nothing. Then two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had a large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had cut the tulips. They came straight towards the little daisy, which could not understand what they wanted.
“Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark,” said one of the boys, and began to cut out a square round the daisy, so that it remained in the centre of the grass.
“Pluck the flower off” said the other boy, and the daisy trembled for fear, for to be pulled off meant death to it; and it wished so much to live, as it was to go with the square of turf into the poor captive lark’s cage.
“No let it stay,” said the other boy, “it looks so pretty.”
And so it stayed, and was brought into the lark’s cage. The poor bird was lamenting its lost liberty, and beating its wings against the wires; and the little daisy could not speak or utter a consoling word, much as it would have liked to do so. So the forenoon passed.
“I have no water,” said the captive lark, “they have all gone out, and forgotten to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and burning. I feel as if I had fire and ice within me, and the air is so oppressive. Alas! I must die, and part with the warm sunshine, the fresh green meadows, and all the beauty that God has created.” And it thrust its beak into the piece of grass, to refresh itself a little. Then it noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed it with its beak and said: “You must also fade in here, poor little flower. You and the piece of grass are all they have given me in exchange for the whole world, which I enjoyed outside. Each little blade of grass shall be a green tree for me, each of your white petals a fragrant flower. Alas! you only remind me of what I have lost.”
“I wish I could console the poor lark,” thought the daisy. It could not move one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its delicate petals streamed forth, and was much stronger than such flowers usually have: the bird noticed it, although it was dying with thirst, and in its pain tore up the green blades of grass, but did not touch the flower.
The evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a drop of water; it opened its beautiful wings, and fluttered about in its anguish; a faint and mournful “Tweet, tweet,” was all it could utter, then it bent its little head towards the flower, and its heart broke for want and longing. The flower could not, as on the previous evening, fold up its petals and sleep; it dropped sorrowfully. The boys only came the next morning; when they saw the dead bird, they began to cry bitterly, dug a nice grave for it, and adorned it with flowers. The bird’s body was placed in a pretty red box; they wished to bury it with royal honours. While it was alive and sang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage; now, they cried over it and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf, with the little daisy in it, was thrown out on the dusty highway. Nobody thought of the flower which had felt so much for the bird and had so greatly desired to comfort it.
關於安徒生童話英語故事：The Rose—Elf 玫瑰花精In the midst of a garden there grew a rose bush, quite covered with roses, and in the most beautiful of them all there lived an elf-an elf so tiny that no mortal eye could see him. But he was as well made and as perfect as any child could be, and he had wings reaching from his shoulders to his feet. Behind each petal of the rose he had a tiny bedroom. Oh, how fragrant his rooms were, and how bright and transparent the walls, for they were the beautiful pale pink petals of the rose! All day long the little elf rejoiced in the warm sunshine as he flew from flower to flower or danced on the wings of the fluttering butterflies and measured how many steps he would have to take to pass along all the roads and paths on a single linden leaf. You see, what we call the veins on a leaf were highroads and byways to him. It was a long journey, and he had begun it rather late, so before he finished, the sun had gone down!
It turned very cold, dew fell, and the wind blew, so now it was high time he went home. He hurried as fast as he could, but to his dismay he found that the rose had closed its petals for the night! Not a single rose stood open! He couldn't get in! Now, the poor little rose elf was terribly frightened, for he had never been out at night before; he had always slumbered sweetly and safely behind the warm rose petals. This would surely be the death of him!
Suddenly he remembered that at the other end of the garden there was an arbor of lovely honeysuckle, those flowers which looked like big painted horns. In one of them, perhaps, he could go down and sleep safely till morning.
Swiftly he flew to the far end of the garden. But suddenly he stopped! Quiet! There were already two people in the arbor. The loveliest maiden and a handsome young man. They sat closely together and wished they might never, never part. They loved each other, even more than the best child can love its father and mother.
"Yet we must part," the young man was saying. "Your brother doesn't like me, so he is sending me on a long journey, far over distant mountains and oceans. Farewell, my sweetest bride, for that you will always be to me!"
Then they kissed, and the young maiden wept and gave him a rose. But first she pressed on it a kiss so warm and tender that the rose petals opened, and then the little elf slipped quickly inside. As he leaned his tiny head against the delicate, fragrant walls, he could hear, "Farewell! Farewell!" and he felt that the rose was being placed on the young man's heart. Ah, how that heart beat! The little elf couldn't go to sleep for its beating!
But not long did the rose rest undisturbed on that throbbing heart. As the young man walked lonely through the dark wood he took the rose out and kissed it so often and so warmly that the little elf was almost crushed. Through the petals he could feel the young man's burning lips, while the rose itself opened as if under the strongest midday sun.
Suddenly another man appeared. It was the pretty maiden's gloomy and wicked brother! He drew out a long sharp knife, and while the young man was kissing the rose, this wicked one stabbed him to death! Then he cut off the head and buried head and body in the soft earth beneath the linden tree.
"Now he's dead and forgotten!" the evil brother thought. "He'll never come back again. He was supposed to have left on a long journey where a man might easily lose his life-and so he has lost his. No, he won't come back, and my sister won't ever dare ask me about him." Then he kicked dry leaves over the loose earth and went home in the darkness of the night.
But he was not alone, as he thought. The little elf was with him. For, as he dug the grave, a dried, rolled-up linden leaf had fallen in his hair, and the rose elf was in that leaf. Now the man's hat was placed over the leaf, and it was very dark in there where the little elf trembled in fear and anger at the wicked deed.
In the early morning, the evil man reached home. He took off his hat and went into his sister's bedroom. There lay the pretty maiden, dreaming of her beloved, whom she thought far away traveling over mountains and through the forests. The wicked brother leaned over her and laughed-the hideous laugh of a devil-and the withered leaf dropped from his hair onto her bed cover. But he didn't notice, and pretty soon he left her room to get a little sleep himself.
Now the little elf crept quietly out of the withered leaf, slipped into the ear of the sleeping girl, and told her, as in a dream, the dreadful story of the murder. He described the spot in the woods where her brother had killed her sweetheart, and the place under the linden tree where the body was buried, and then whispered, "And so that you may not think this all a dream, you will find a withered leaf of the tree on your bedspread!" And when she awoke she found the leaf.
Oh, what bitter, bitter tears she shed! Yet to no one did she dare betray her grief. All that day her window stood open, and the little elf could easily have escaped to the roses and all the other flowers of the garden, but he could not bear to leave the sorrowing girl.
In the window stood a bush that bore roses every month, and he found a spot in one of those flowers from where he could watch the poor girl. Often her brother came into the room, merry with an evil mirth, and she dared not say a word of the grief in her heart.
When night came she stole out of the house and into the forest to the place where the linden tree stood. She brushed away the leaves, dug into the earth, and so at last came to the body of her beloved. How she wept then, and how she prayed to God that she too might die! She would gladly have taken the body home with her, but since that would be impossible, she took up the pale head, with its closed eyes, kissed the cold mouth, and with a trembling hand brushed the dirt from the beautiful hair.
"This, at least, I can keep," she wept. Then she buried the body again and scattered the leaves once more over it. But the head, together with a little sprig from a jasmine bush which bloomed in the wood where he had been killed, she took with her to her home.
As soon as she reached her room she brought the biggest flowerpot she could find, and in this she laid the dead man's head, covered it with earth, and planted the sprig of jasmine.
The little elf could no longer bear to see such grief. "Farewell, farewell," he whispered, and then he flew out to his rose in the garden. But it was withered and faded now, and only a few dry leaves clung to the bush. "Alas!" sighed the elf. "How soon everything good and beautiful passes away!" But at last he found another rose, and made his home in safety behind its delicate, fragrant petals.
But every morning he would fly to the poor maiden's window, and he always found her there, weeping over the flowerpot. Softly her bitter tears fell upon the jasmine spray, and every day as she became paler and paler the sprig grew fresher and greener. New shoots appeared, one after another, and little white buds burst forth, and these she kissed.
When her wicked brother saw her do that he scolded her and asked why she acted so silly. He didn't like it and didn't understand why she was always weeping over the flowerpot. He did not know what closed eyes were there, and what red lips had there returned to dust.
And the pretty maiden leaned her head against the flowerpot, and the little elf found her there, fallen into a gentle slumber. So he crept again into her ear and whispered to her of that evening in the arbor and of the scent of the roses and the loves of the elves. Then she dreamed so sweetly, and while she dreamed her life passed gently away. She died a quiet death and was in Heaven with her beloved. And the jasmine flowers opened their big white bells and gave out their wonderful sweet fragrance. It was the only way they knew to weep for the dead.
When the wicked brother saw the beautiful blooming plant, he took it for himself as an inheritance from his sister, and put it in his bedroom close beside his bed, for it was glorious indeed to look at, and its fragrance was sweet and fresh. But the little rose elf went with it, and flew from blossom to blossom; in each lived a tiny soul, and to each he told the story of the murdered man whose head even now rested under the earth beneath them. He told them of the evil brother and the poor sister.
"We know it!" replied each little soul in the flowers. "Did we not spring from those murdered eyes and lips? We know it! We know it!" they repeated, and nodded their heads in an odd way. The rose elf could not understand how they could be so quiet about it, and he flew out to the bees gathering honey and told them the terrible story about the wicked brother. So they reported it to their Queen, and the Queen commanded all the bees to kill the murderer the very next morning.
But the night before, the first night after his sister's death, while the evil brother was asleep in his bed beside the fragrant jasmine, the flowers opened, and out of each blossom came a tiny spirit-invisible, but armed with a sharp little poisoned spear. First, they crept into his ears, and told him wicked dreams; then they flew across his lips, and pierced his tongue with their poisoned darts.
"Now we have avenged the dead man!" they cried, then flew back again into the white bells of the jasmine.
When the morning came, and the windows of the bedroom were opened, the rose elf and the whole swarm of bees with their Queen swept in to kill him.
But he was already dead, and people stood around his bed and said, "The scent of the jasmine has killed him!" Then the rose elf understood the vengeance of the flowers and told it to the Queen, and she and her whole swarm of bees ceaselessly hummed around the flowerpot and could not be driven away. When a man picked up the pot a bee stung him on the hand, so that he let it fall and it broke into pieces. Then the people saw the whitened skull and knew that the dead man on the bed was a murderer.
So the Queen bee hummed in the air and sang of the vengeance of the flowers and about the rose elf, and how behind the smallest leaf there dwells One who can disclose and repay every evil.
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