Far hence, in a country whither the Swallows fly in our winter-time, there dwelt a King who had eleven sons, and one daughter, the beautiful Elise. The eleven brothers (they were princes) went to school with stars on their breasts and swords by their sides; they wrote on golden tablets with diamond pens, and could read either with a book or without one--in short, it was easy to perceive that they were princes. Their sister Elise used to sit upon a little glass stool, and had a picture-book which had cost the half of a kingdom. Oh, the children were so happy! but happy they were not to remain always. Their father the King married a very wicked Queen, who was not at all kind to the poor children; they found this out on the first day after the marriage, when there was a grand gala at the palace; for when the children played at receiving company, instead of having as many cakes and sweetmeats as they liked, the Queen gave them only some sand in a little dish, and told them to imagine that was something nice. The week after, she sent the little Elise to be brought up by some peasants in the country, and it was not long before she told the King so many falsehoods about the poor princes that he would have nothing more to do with them. ‘Away, out into the world, and take care of yourselves,’ said the wicked Queen; ‘fly away in the form of great speechless birds.’ But she could not make their transformation so [Illustration] disagreeable as she wished,--the Princes were changed into eleven white swans. Sending forth a strange cry, they flew out of the palace windows, over the park and over the wood. It was still early in the morning when they passed by the place where Elise lay sleeping in the peasant’s cottage; they flew several times round the roof, stretched their long necks, and flapped their wings, but no one either heard or saw them; they were forced to fly away, up to the clouds and into the wide world, so on they went to the forest, which extended as far as the sea-shore. The poor little Elise stood in the peasant’s cottage amusing herself with a green leaf, for she had no other plaything. She pricked a hole in the leaf and peeped through it at the sun, and then she fancied she saw her brother’s bright eyes, and whenever the warm sunbeams shone full upon her cheeks, she thought of her brother’s kisses. One day passed exactly like the other. When the wind blew through the thick hedge of rose-trees in front of the house, she would whisper to the roses, ‘Who is more beautiful than you?’ but the roses would shake their heads and say, ‘Elise.’ And when the peasant’s wife sat on Sundays at the door of her cottage reading her hymn-book, the wind would rustle in the leaves and say to the book, ‘Who is more pious than thou?’--‘Elise,’ replied the hymn-book. And what the roses and the hymn-book said, was no more than the truth.