YOU remember Ole the watchman in the tower！ I have told of two visits to him，nowI shall tell about a thirdone， but that is not the last．

It is ususlly at New Year time that Igo up to him；

now on the contrary it was on removing-day， for then it is not very pleasant down in the streets of the town； they aresoheaped-up with sweepings and rubbish of all kinds， not to speak of cast－out bed－straw， which one must wade through．I came by just now， and saw that in this great collection of rubbish several children were playing； they played at going to bed； it was so inviting for this game，they thought； they snuggled down in the straw， and pulledan old ragged piece of wallpaper over themfor a coverlet．

"It was so lovely！ they said； it was too much for me， andsoI had to run off up to Ole．

"It is removing-day！ said he，"The streets andlanes serve as an ash－box， an enormous ash－box． A cart－load isenough for me． I can get something out of that， andI did get something shortly afterChristmas．Icame down into the street， which was raw ， wet， dirty， and enough to give onea cold． The dustman stopped with his cart， which was full，a kind of sample of the streets of Copenhagen on a remov－ ing－day． In the back of the cart was a fir－tree， still quitegreen and with gold-tinsel on the branches； it had beenuaed for a Christmas－tree and was now thrown out into the street， and the dustman had stuck it up at the back of the heap． It was pleasant to look at， or something to weep over；yes，one can say either，according tohow one thinks about it， andI thought about it， and so did one and anoth－er of the things which lay in the cart， or they might havethought，which is about one and the same thing．

A lady' s torn glove lay there ； what did it thinkabout？ ShallI tell you？ It lay and pointed with the littlefinger at the fir－tree． "That tree concerns me，" itthought；"Ihave also been at a party where there werechandeliers！ My real life was one ball－night； a hand-clasp，andI split！ There my recollection stops； Ihavenothing more to live for！"That is what the glove thought，or could have thought．"How silly the fir－tree is！"said thepotsherd． Broken crockery thiks everything foolish．"Ifone is on the dust－cart，" they said，"one should not puton airs and wear tinsel！ Iknow that Ihavebeen of use inthis world， of more use than a green branch like that．"That was also an opinion such as many people may have ；butthe fir－tree looked well，it was a little poetry on thepile of rubbish， and there is plenty of that about in thestreets on removing-day ！The way got heavy and trouble - some for me down there， andI became eager to comeaway ， up into the tower again， and to stay up here： hereIsit and look down with good humour．