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“It is always like this here， and this is how we live in our warm country，” said the stork-mamma； and the thought made the young ones almost beside themselves with pleasure.
“Is there anything more to see？” they asked； “are we going farther into the country？”
“there is nothing further for us to see，” answered the stork-mamma. “Beyond this delightful region there are immense forests， where the branches of the trees entwine round each other， while prickly， creeping plants cover the paths， and only an elephant could force a passage for himself with his GREat feet. The snakes are too large， and the lizards too lively for us to catch. Then there is the desert； if you went there， your eyes would soon be full of sand with the lightest breeze， and if it should blow great guns， you would most likely find yourself in a sand-drift. Here is the best place for you， where there are frogs and locusts； here I shall remain， and so must you.” And so they stayed.
the parents sat in the nest on the slender minaret， and rested， yet still were busily employed in cleaning and smoothing their feathers， and in sharpening their beaks against their red stockings； then they would stretch out their necks， salute each other， and gravely raise their heads with the high-polished forehead， and soft， smooth feathers， while their brown eyes shone with intelligence. The female young ones strutted about amid the moist rushes， glancing at the other young storks and making acquaintances， and swallowing a frog at every third step， or tossing a little snake about with their beaks， in a way they considered very becoming， and besides it tasted very good. The young male storks soon began to quarrel； they struck at each other with their wings， and pecked with their beaks till the blood came. And in this manner many of the young ladies and gentlemen were betrothed to each other： it was， of course， what they wanted， and indeed what they lived for. Then they returned to a nest， and there the quarrelling began afresh； for in hot countries people are almost all violent and passionate. But for all that it was pleasant， especially for the old people， who watched them with GREat joy： all that their young ones did suited them. Every day here there was sunshine， plenty to eat， and nothing to think of but pleasure. But in the rich castle of their Egyptian host， as they called him， pleasure was not to be found. The rich and mighty lord of the castle lay on his couch， in the midst of the great hall， with its many colored walls looking like the centre of a great tulip； but he was stiff and powerless in all his limbs， and lay stretched out like a mummy. His family and servants stood round him； he was not dead， although he could scarcely be said to live. The healing moor-flower from the north， which was to have been found and brought to him by her who loved him so well， had not arrived. His young and beautiful daughter who， in swan's plumage， had flown over land and seas to the distant north， had never returned. She is dead， so the two swan-maidens had said when they came home； and they made up quite a story about her， and this is what they told，—
“We three flew away together through the air，” said they： “a hunter caught sight of us， and shot at us with an arrow. The arrow struck our young friend and sister， and slowly singing her farewell song she sank down， a dying swan， into the forest lake. On the shores of the lake， under a spreading birch-tree， we laid her in the cold earth. We had our revenge； we bound fire under the wings of a swallow， who had a nest on the thatched roof of the huntsman. The house took fire， and burst into flames； the hunter was burnt with the house， and the light was reflected over the sea as far as the spreading birch， beneath which we laid her sleeping dust. She will never return to the land of Egypt.” And then they both wept. And stork-papa， who heard the story， snapped with his beak so that it might be heard a long way off.
“Deceit and lies！” cried he； “I should like to run my beak deep into their chests.”
“And perhaps break it off，” said the mamma stork， “then what a sight you would be. Think first of yourself， and then of your family； all others are nothing to us.”
“Yes， I know，” said the stork-papa； “but to-morrow I can easily place myself on the edge of the open cupola， when the learned and wise men assemble to consult on the state of the sick man； perhaps they may come a little nearer to the truth.” And the learned and wise men assembled together， and talked a GREat deal on every point； but the stork could make no sense out of anything they said； neither were there any good results from their consultations， either for the sick man， or for his daughter in the marshy heath. When we listen to what people say in this world， we shall hear a great deal； but it is an advantage to know what has been said and done before， when we listen to a conversation. The stork did， and we know at least as much as he， the stork.
“Love is a life-giver. the highest love produces the highest life. Only through love can the sick man be cured.” This had been said by many， and even the learned men acknowledged that it was a wise saying.
“What a beautiful thought！” exclaimed the papa stork immediately.
“I don't quite understand it，” said the mamma stork， when her husband repeated it； “however， it is not my fault， but the fault of the thought； whatever it may be， I have something else to think of.”
Now the learned men had spoken also of love between this one and that one； of the difference of the love which we have for our neighbor， to the love that exists between parents and children； of the love of the plant for the light， and how the germ springs forth when the sunbeam kisses the ground. All these things were so elaborately and learnedly explained， that it was impossible for stork-papa to follow it， much less to talk about it. His thoughts on the subject quite weighed him down； he stood the whole of the following day on one leg， with half-shut eyes， thinking deeply. So much learning was quite a heavy weight for him to carry. One thing， however， the papa stork could understand. Every one， high and low， had from their inmost hearts expressed their opinion that it was a GREat misfortune for so many thousands of people—the whole country indeed—to have this man so sick， with no hopes of his recovery. And what joy and blessing it would spread around if he could by any means be cured！ But where bloomed the flower that could bring him health？ They had searched for it everywhere； in learned writings， in the shining stars， in the weather and wind. Inquiries had been made in every by-way that could be thought of， until at last the wise and learned men has asserted， as we have been already told， that “love， the life-giver， could alone give new life to a father；” and in saying this， they had overdone it， and said more than they understood themselves. They repeated it， and wrote it down as a recipe， “Love is a life-giver.” But how could such a recipe be prepared—that was a difficulty they could not overcome. At last it was decided that help could only come from the princess herself， whose whole soul was wrapped up in her father， especially as a plan had been adopted by her to enable her to obtain a remedy.
More than a year had passed since the princess had set out at night， when the light of the young moon was soon lost beneath the horizon. She had gone to the marble sphinx in the desert， shaking the sand from her sandals， and then passed through the long passage， which leads to the centre of one of the GREat pyramids， where the mighty kings of antiquity， surrounded with pomp and splendor， lie veiled in the form of mummies. She had been told by the wise men， that if she laid her head on the breast of one of them， from the head she would learn where to find life and recovery for her father. She had performed all this， and in a dream had learnt that she must bring home to her father the lotus flower， which grows in the deep sea， near the moors and heath in the Danish land. The very place and situation had been pointed out to her， and she was told that the flower would restore her father to health and strength. And， therefore， she had gone forth from the land of Egypt， flying over to the open marsh and the wild moor in the plumage of a swan.
the papa and mamma storks knew all this， and we also know it now. We know， too， that the Marsh King has drawn her down to himself， and that to the loved ones at home she is forever dead. One of the wisest of them said， as the stork-mamma also said， “That in some way she would， after all， manage to succeed；” and so at last they comforted themselves with this hope， and would wait patiently； in fact， they could do nothing better.
“I should like to get away the swan's feathers from those two treacherous princesses，” said the papa stork； “then， at least， they would not be able to fly over again to the wild moor， and do more wickedness. I can hide the two suits of feathers over yonder， till we find some use for them.”
“But where will you put them？” asked the mamma stork.
“In our nest on the moor. I and the young ones will carry them by turns during our flight across； and as we return， should they prove too heavy for us， we shall be sure to find plenty of places on the way in which we can conceal them till our next journey. Certainly one suit of swan's feathers would be enough for the princess， but two are always better. In those northern countries no one can have too many travelling wrappers.”
“No one will thank you for it，” said stork-mamma； “but you are master； and， excepting at breeding time， I have nothing to say.”
