SHORT STORIES BY OSCAR WILDE FULL

The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant and he jumped out of bed and looked out. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful.It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. “What a curious thing!” he cried “there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. “I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “I will put up there,” he cried “it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince. Then he saw the statue on the tall column. “Where shall I put up?” he said “I hope the town has made preparations.” Good-bye!” and he flew away.Īll day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “You have been trifling with me,” he cried. “Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.” “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.Īfter they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.

SHORT STORIES BY OSCAR WILDE FULL

“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows “she has no money, and far too many relations” and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. “Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. “Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming. “How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.” “He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. “I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.” “Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince.

Short stories by oscar wilde