The bottle sped on like a
bird, for it bore a heart, a loving letter, within itself. And the sun
rose and set; and the bottle felt as at the time when it first came
into being in the red gleaming oven--it felt a strong desire to leap
back into the light.

It experienced calms and fresh storms; but it was hurled against no
rock, and was devoured by no shark; and thus it drifted on for a year
and a day, sometimes towards the north, sometimes towards the south,
just as the current carried it. Beyond this it was its own master, but
one may grow tired even of that.

The written page, the last farewell of the bridegroom to his
betrothed, would only bring sorrow if it came into her hands; but
where were the hands, so white and delicate, which had once spread the
cloth on the fresh grass in the greenwood, on the betrothal day? Where
was the tanner's daughter? Yes, where was the land, and which land
might be nearest to her dwelling? The bottle knew not; it drove onward
and onward, and was at last tired of wandering, because that was not
in its way; but yet it had to travel until at last it came to land--to
a strange land. It understood not a word of what was spoken here, for
this was not the language it had heard spoken before; and one loses a
good deal if one does not understand the language.

The bottle was fished out and examined on all sides. The leaf of paper
within it was discovered, and taken out, and turned over and over, but
the people did not understand what was written thereon. They saw that
the bottle must have been thrown overboard, and that something about
this was written on the paper, but what were the words? That question
remained unanswered, and the paper was put back into the bottle, and
the latter was deposited in a great cupboard, in a great room, in a
great house.

Whenever strangers came the paper was brought out, and turned over and
over, so that the inscription, which was only written in pencil,
became more and more illegible, so that at last no one could see that
there were letters on it. And for a whole year more the bottle
remained standing in the cupboard; and then it was put into the loft,
where it became covered with dust and cobwebs. Ah, how often it
thought of the better days, the times when it had poured forth red
wine in the greenwood, when it had been rocked on the waves of the
sea, and when it had carried a secret, a letter, a parting sigh,
safely enclosed in its bosom.

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