安徒生经典童话故事两篇

安徒生，丹麦19世纪著名童话作家，世界文学童话创始人，因为其童话作品而闻名于世。他通过童话的形式，真实地反映了他所处的那个时代及其社会生活，深厚地表达了平凡人的感情和意愿，从而使人们的感情得到净化与升华。下面本站小编为大家带来安徒生经典童话故事两篇，欢迎大家阅读!

安徒生经典童话故事：区别

It was in the month of May. The wind was still cold, but spring had come, said the trees and the bushes, the fields and the meadows. Everywhere flowers were budding into blossom; even the hedges were alive with them. Here spring spoke about herself; it spoke from a little apple tree, from which hung a single branch so fresh and blooming, and fairly weighed down by a glorious mass of rosy buds just ready to open.

Now this branch knew how lovely it was, for that knowledge lies in the leaf as well as in the flesh, so it wasn't a bit surprised when one day a grand carriage stopped in the road beside it, and the young Countess in the carriage said that this apple branch was the most beautiful she had ever seen-it was spring itself in its loveliest form. So she broke off the apple branch and carried it in her own dainty hand, shading it from the sun with her silk parasol, as they drove on to her castle, in which there were lofty halls and beautifully decorated rooms. Fleecy-white curtains fluttered at its open windows, and there were many shining, transparent vases full of beautiful flowers. In one of these vases, which looked as if it were carved of new-fallen snow, she placed the apple branch, among fresh green beech leaves-a lovely sight indeed.

And so it happened that the apple branch grew proud, and that's quite human.

All sorts of people passed through the rooms, and according to their rank expressed their admiration in different ways; some said too much, some said too little, and some said nothing at all. And the apple branch began to realize that there were differences in people as well as in plants.

"Some are used for nourishment, some are for ornament, and some you could very well do without," thought the apple branch.

From its position at the open window the apple branch could look down over the gardens and meadows below, and consider the differences among the flowers and plants beneath. Some were rich, some were poor, and some were very poor.

"Miserable, rejected plants," said the apple branch. "There is a difference indeed! It's quite proper and just that distinctions should be made. Yet how unhappy they must feel, if indeed a creature like that is capable of feeling anything, as I and my equals do; but it must be that way, otherwise everybody would be treated as though they were just alike."

And the apple branch looked down with especial pity on one kind of flower that grew everywhere in meadows and ditches. They were much too common ever to be gathered into bouquets; they could be found between the paving stones; they shot up like the rankest and most worthless of weeds. They were dandelions, but people have given them the ugly name, "the devil's milk pails."

"Poor wretched outcasts," said the apple branch. "I suppose you can't help being as common as you are, and having such a vulgar name! It's the same with plants as with men-there must be a difference."

"A difference?" repeated the sunbeam, as it kissed the apple branch; but it kissed the golden "devil's milk pails," too. And all the other sunbeams did the same, kissing all the flowers equally, poor as well as rich.

The apple branch had never thought about our Lord's infinite love for everything that lives and moves in Him, had never thought how much that it is good and beautiful can lie hidden but still not be forgotten; and that, too, was human.

But the sunbeam, the ray of light, knew better. "You don't see very clearly; you are not very farsighted. Who are these outcast flowers that you pity so much?"

"Those devil's milk pails down there," replied the apple branch. "Nobody ever ties them up in bouquets; they're trodden under foot, because there are too many of them. And when they go to seed they fly about along the road like little bits of wool and hang on people's clothes. They're just weeds! I suppose there must be weeds too, but I'm certainly happy and grateful that I'm not like one of them!"

Now a whole flock of children ran out into the meadow to play. The youngest of them was so tiny that he had to be carried by the others. When they set him down in the grass among the golden blossoms, he laughed and gurgled with joy, kicked his little legs, rolled over and over, and plucked only the yellow dandelions. These he kissed in innocent delight.

The bigger children broke off the flowers of the dandelions and joined the hollow stalks link by link into chains. First they would make one for a necklace, then a longer one to hang across the shoulders and around the waist, and finally one to go around their heads; it was a beautiful wreath of splendid green links and chains.

But the biggest of the children carefully gathered the stalks that had gone to seed, those loose, aerial, woolly blossoms, those wonderfully perfect balls of dainty white plumes, and held them to their lips, trying to blow away all the white feathers with one breath. Granny had told them that whoever could do that would receive new clothes before the year was out. The poor, despised dandelion was considered quite a prophet on such occasions.

"Now do you see?" asked the sunbeam. "Do you see its beauty and power?"

"Oh, it's all right-for children," replied the apple branch.

Now an old woman came into the meadow. She stooped and dug up the roots of the dandelion with a blunt knife that had lost its handle. Some of the roots she would roast instead of coffee berries, others she would sell to the apothecary to be used as drugs.

"Beauty is something higher than this," said the apple branch. "Only the chosen few can really be allowed into the kingdom of the beautiful; there's as much difference between plants as between men."

Then the sunbeam spoke of the infinite love of the Creator for all His creatures, for everything that has life, and of the equal distribution of all things in Time and eternity.

"That's just your opinion," replied the apple branch.

Now some people came into the room, and among them was the young Countess who had placed the apple branch in the transparent vase. She was carrying a flower-or whatever it was-that was protected by three or four large leaves around it like a cap, so that no breath of air or gust of wind could injure it. She carried it more carefully and tenderly than she had the apple branch when she had brought it to the castle. Very gently she removed the leaves, and then the apple branch could see what she carried. It was a delicate, feathery crown of starry seeds borne by the despised dandelion!

This was what she had plucked so carefully and carried so tenderly, so that no single one of the loose, dainty, feathered arrows that rounded out its downy form should be blown away. There it was, whole and perfect. With delight she admired the beautiful form, the airy lightness, the marvelous mechanism of a thing that was destined so soon to be scattered by the wind.

"Look how wonderfully beautiful our Lord made this!" she cried. "I'll paint it, together with the apple branch. Everybody thinks it is so extremely beautiful, but this poor flower is lovely, too; it has received as much from our Lord in another way. They are very different, yet both are children in the kingdom of the beautiful!"

The sunbeam kissed the poor dandelion, and then kissed the blooming apple branch, whose petals seemed to blush a deeper red.

　　安徒生经典童话故事：老墓碑

IN a house, with a large courtyard, in a provincial town, at that

time of the year in which people say the evenings are growing

longer, a family circle were gathered together at their old home. A

lamp burned on the table, although the weather was mild and

warm, and the long curtains hung down before the open windows,

and without the moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.

But they were not talking of the moon, but of a large, old stone that

lay below in the courtyard not very far from the kitchen door. The

maids often laid the clean copper saucepans and kitchen vessels on

this stone, that they might dry in the sun, and the children were

fond of playing on it. It was, in fact, an old gravestone.

“Yes,” said the master of the house, “I believe the stone came from

the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled

down, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold.

My father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used

for paving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and

laid in the courtyard.” “Any one can see that it is a grave-stone,”

said the eldest of the children; “the representation of an hour-glass

and part of the figure of an angel can still be traced, but the

inscription beneath is quite worn out, excepting the name ‘Preben,’

and a large ‘S’ close by it, and a little farther down the name of

‘Martha’ can be easily read. But nothing more, and even that

cannot be seen unless it has been raining, or when we have washed

the stone.” “Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the gravestone

of Preben Schwane and his wife.” The old man who said this

looked old enough to be the grandfather of all present in the room.

“Yes,” he continued, “these people were among the last who were

buried in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very

worthy old couple, I can remember them well in the days of my

boyhood. Every one knew them, and they were esteemed by all.

They were the oldest residents in the town, and people said they

possessed a ton of gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed,

in the coarsest stuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben

and Martha were a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the

bench, at the top of the steep stone steps, in front of their house,

with the branches of the linden-tree waving above them, and

nodded in a gentle, friendly way to passers by, it really made one

feel quite happy. They were very good to the poor; they fed them

and clothed them, and in their benevolence there was judgment as

well as true Christianity. The old woman died first; that day is still

quite vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had

accompanied my father to the old man’s house. Martha had fallen

into the sleep of death just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a

bedroom, near to the one in which we sat, and the old man was in

great distress and weeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and

to a few neighbors who were there, of how lonely he should feel

now she was gone, and how good and true she, his dead wife, had

been during the number of years that they had passed through life

together, and how they had become acquainted, and learnt to love

each other. I was, as I have said, a boy, and only stood by and

listened to what the others said; but it filled me with a strange

emotion to listen to the old man, and to watch how the color rose in

his cheeks as he spoke of the days of their courtship, of how

beautiful she was, and how many little tricks he had been guilty of,

that he might meet her. And then he talked of his wedding-day;

and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to be carried back, by his

words, to that joyful time. And yet there she was, lying in the next

room, dead- an old woman, and he was an old man, speaking of

the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it is; then I was

but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane then was.

Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember quite

well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben

walked close behind the coffin.

“A few years before this time the old couple had had their gravestone

prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the

date. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and

laid on the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben

might be laid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind

them wealth, they left behind them far less than people had

believed they possessed; what there was went to families distantly

related to them, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old

house, with its balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of

the high steps, under the lime-tree, was considered, by the roadinspectors,

too old and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when

the same fate befell the convent church, and the graveyard was

destroyed, the grave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything

else, was sold to whoever would buy it. And so it happened that

this stone was not cut in two as many others had been, but now lies

in the courtyard below, a scouring block for the maids, and a

playground for the children. The paved street now passes over the

resting place of Old Preben and his wife; no one thinks of them any

more now.” And the old man who had spoken of all this shook his

head mournfully, and said, “Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be

forgotten!” And then the conversation turned on other matters.

But the youngest child in the room, a boy, with large, earnest eyes,

mounted upon a chair behind the window curtains, and looked out

into the yard, where the moon was pouring a flood of light on the

old gravestone,- the stone that had always appeared to him so dull

and flat, but which lay there now like a great leaf out of a book of

history. All that the boy had heard of Old Preben and his wife

seemed clearly defined on the stone, and as he gazed on it, and

glanced at the clear, bright moon shining in the pure air, it was as

if the light of God’s countenance beamed over His beautiful world.

“Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!” still echoed through the

room, and in the same moment an invisible spirit whispered to the

heart of the boy, “Preserve carefully the seed that has been

entrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well.

Through thee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old,

weather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear,

golden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the

streets arm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the

bench under the lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The

seed of this hour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful

poem. The beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live

always in story or in song.”