In the middle of a dark and gloomy forest lived Carl and Greta. Their
father was a forester, who, when he was well, was accustomed to be
away all day with his gun and dogs, leaving the two children with no
one but old Nurse Heine; for their mother died when they were very
little. Now Carl was twelve years old, and Greta nine. Carl was a
fine-looking boy, but Nurse Heine said that he had a melancholy
countenance. Greta, however, was a pretty, bright-faced, merry little
girl. They were allowed to wander through a certain part of the
forest, where their father thought there was no especial danger to
fear.

In truth, Carl was not melancholy at all, but was just as happy in his
way as Greta was in hers. In the summer, while she was pulling the
wood flowers and weaving them into garlands, or playing with her dogs,
or chasing squirrels, Carl would be seated on some root or stone with
a large sheet of coarse card-board on his knee, on which he drew
pictures with a piece of sharpened charcoal. He had sketched, in his
rough way, every pretty mass of foliage, and every picturesque rock
and waterfall within his range. And in the winter, when the icicles
were hanging from the cliffs, and the snow wound white arms around the
dark green cypress boughs, Carl still found beautiful pictures
everywhere, and Greta plenty of play in building snow-houses and
statues. And, moreover, Carl had lately discovered in the brooks some
colored stones, which were soft enough to sharpen sufficiently to give
a blue tint to his skies, and green to his trees; and thus he made
pictures that Nurse Heine said were more wonderful than those in the
chapel of the little village of Evergode.

I have said that the forest was dark and gloomy, because it was
composed chiefly of pines and cypresses, but it never seemed so to