He is that.
Speaking of Hans Christian Andersen, we boys loved him as a matter
of course; for had he not told us all the beautiful stories that
made the whole background of our lives? They do that yet with me,
more than you would think. The little Christmas tree and the hare
that made it weep by jumping over it because it was so small, belong
to the things that come to stay with you always. I hear of people
nowadays who think it is not proper to tell children fairy-stories.
I am sorry for those children. I wonder what they will give them
instead. Algebra, perhaps. Nice lot of counting machines we shall
have running the century that is to come! But though we loved
Andersen, we were not above playing our pranks upon him when
occasion offered. In those days Copenhagen was girt about with
great earthen walls, and there were beautiful walks up there under
the old lindens. On moonlight nights when the smell of violets was
in the air, we would sometimes meet the poet there, walking alone.
Then we would string out irreverently in Indian file and walk up,
cap in hand, one after another, to salute him with a deeply respectful
"Good evening, Herr Professor!" That was his title.
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