the galoshes claws. He observed it perfectly, and laughed in his heart. "Now
then, there is no doubt that I am dreaming; but I never before was aware of
such mad freaks as these." And up he flew into the green roof and sang; but in
the song there was no poetry, for the spirit of the poet was gone. The Shoes,
as is the case with anybody who does what he has to do properly, could only
attend to one thing at a time. He wanted to be a poet, and he was one; he now
wished to be a merry chirping bird: but when he was metamorphosed into one,
the former peculiarities ceased immediately. "It is really pleasant enough,"
said he: "the whole day long I sit in the office amid the driest law-papers,
and at night I fly in my dream as a lark in the gardens of Fredericksburg; one
might really write a very pretty comedy upon it." He now fluttered down into
the grass, turned his head gracefully on every side, and with his bill pecked
the pliant blades of grass, which, in comparison to his present size, seemed
as majestic as the palm-branches of northern Africa.

Unfortunately the pleasure lasted but a moment. Presently black night
overshadowed our enthusiast, who had so entirely missed his part of
copying-clerk at a police-office; some vast object seemed to be thrown over
him. It was a large oil-skin cap, which a sailor-boy of the quay had thrown
over the struggling bird; a coarse hand sought its way carefully in under the
broad rim, and seized the clerk over the back and wings. In the first moment
of fear, he called, indeed, as loud as he could--"You impudent little
blackguard! I am a copying-clerk at the police-office; and you know you cannot
insult any belonging to the constabulary force without a chastisement.
Besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it is strictly forbidden to catch birds
in the royal gardens of Fredericksburg; but your blue uniform betrays where
you come from." This fine tirade sounded, however, to the ungodly sailor-boy
like a mere "Pippi-pi." He gave the noisy bird a knock on his beak, and walked
on.

He was soon met by two schoolboys of the upper class--that is to say as
individuals, for with regard to learning they were in the lowest class in the
school; and they bought the stupid bird. So the copying-clerk came to
Copenhagen as guest, or rather as prisoner in a family living in Gother
Street.

"'Tis well that I'm dreaming," said the clerk, "or I really should get angry.
First I was a poet; now sold for a few pence as a lark; no doubt it was that
accursed poetical nature which has metamorphosed me into such a poor harmless
little creature. It is really pitiable, particularly when one gets into the
hands of a little blackguard, perfect in all sorts of cruelty to animals: all
I should like to know is, how the story will end."

The two schoolboys, the proprietors now of the transformed clerk, carried him
into an elegant room. A stout stately dame received them with a smile; but she
expressed much dissatisfaction that a common field-bird, as she called the
lark, should appear in such high society. For to-day, however, she would allow
it; and they must shut him in the empty cage that was standing in the window.
"Perhaps he will amuse my good Polly," added the lady, looking with a
benignant smile at a large green parrot that swung himself backwards and
forwards most comfortably in his ring, inside a magnificent brass-wired cage.
"To-day is Polly's birthday," said she with stupid simplicity: "and the little
brown field-bird must wish him joy."

Mr. Polly uttered not a syllable in reply, but swung to and fro with dignified
condescension; while a pretty canary, as yellow as gold, that had lately been
brought from his sunny fragrant home, began to sing aloud.

"Noisy creature! Will you be quiet!" screamed the lady of the house, covering
the cage with an embroidered white pocket handkerchief.

"Chirp, chirp!" sighed he. "That was a dreadful snowstorm"; and he sighed
again, and was silent.

The copying-clerk, or, as the lady said, the brown field-bird, was put into a
small cage, close to the Canary, and not far from "my good Polly." The only
human sounds that the Parrot could bawl out were, "Come, let us be men!"
Everything else that he said was as unintelligible to everybody as the
chirping of the Canary, except to the clerk, who was now a bird too: he
understood his companion perfectly.

"I flew about beneath the green palms and the blossoming almond-trees," sang
the Canary; "I flew around, with my brothers and sisters, over the beautiful
flowers, and over the glassy lakes, where the bright water-plants nodded to me
from below. There, too, I saw many splendidly-dressed paroquets, that told the
drollest stories, and the wildest fairy tales without end."

"Oh! those were uncouth birds," answered the Parrot. "They had no education,
and talked of whatever came into their head.

"If my mistress and all her friends can laugh at what I say, so may you too,
I should think. It is a great fault to have no taste for what is witty or
amusing--come, let us be men."

"Ah, you have no remembrance of love for the charming maidens that danced
beneath the outspread tents beside the bright fragrant flowers? Do you no
longer remember the sweet fruits, and the cooling juice in the wild plants of
our never-to-be-forgotten home?" said the former inhabitant of the Canary
Isles, continuing his dithyrambic.

"Oh, yes," said the Parrot; "but I am far better off here. I am well fed, and
get friendly treatment. I know I am a clever fellow; and that is all I care
about. Come, let us be men. You are of a poetical nature, as it is called--I,
on the contrary, possess profound knowledge and inexhaustible wit. You have
genius; but clear-sighted, calm discretion does not take such lofty flights,
and utter such high natural tones. For this they have covered you over--they
never do the like to me; for I cost more. Besides, they are afraid of my beak;
and I have always a witty answer at hand. Come, let us be men!"

"O warm spicy land of my birth," sang the Canary bird; "I will sing of thy


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