It was in the garden.

 

I was writing in the shade of the big chestnut-tree, close to where the brook¹ flows past. He was sitting a little way off, on the grass, in the sun, with Hans Christian² Andersen in his lap.

 

Of course, he does not know how to read, but he lets you read to him, likes to hear the same tales over and over again. The better he knows them, the better he is pleased. He follows the story page by page, knows exactly where everything comes and catches you up immediately should you skip a line.

 

There are two tales which he loves more than anything in the world.

 

These are Grimm's Faithful John and Andersen's The Little Mermaid³. When anyone comes whom he likes, he fetches the big Grimm, with those heaps of pictures, and asks for Faithful John. Then, if the reader stops, because it is so terribly sad, with all those little dead children, a bright smile lights up his small, long face and he says, reassuringly⁴ and pleased at "knowing better":

 

"Yes, but they come to life again."

 

Today, however, it is The Little Mermaid.

 

"Is that the sort of stories you write?" he asks.

 

"Yes," I say, "but I am afraid mine will not be so pretty."

 

"You must take pains," he says.

 

And I promise.

 

For a time he makes no sound. I go on writing and forget about him.

 

"Is there a little mermaid down there, in the water?" he asks.

 

"Yes, she swims up to the top in the summer."

 

He nods and looks out across the brook, which ripples⁵ so softly and smoothly⁶ that one can hardly see the water flow. On the opposite side, the rushes grow green and thick and there is also a bird, hidden in the rushes, which sings. The dragon-flies are whirling and humming. I am sitting with my head in my hand, absorbed in my work.

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