and stagecoaches:
formerly people called it ugly, but that is no longer true. I lie on
the sea," said Corsor; "I have high roads and gardens, and I have
given birth to a poet who was witty and amusing, which all poets are
not. I once intended to equip a ship that was to sail all round the
earth; but I did not do it, although I could have done so: and then,
too, I smell so deliciously, for close before the gate bloom the most
beautiful roses."

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* Corsor, on the Great Belt, called, formerly, before the introduction
of steam-vessels, when travellers were often obliged to wait a long
time for a favorable wind, "the most tiresome of towns." The poet
Baggesen was born here.

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Little Tuk looked, and all was red and green before his eyes; but as
soon as the confusion of colors was somewhat over, all of a sudden
there appeared a wooded slope close to the bay, and high up above
stood a magnificent old church, with two high pointed towers. From out
the hill-side spouted fountains in thick streams of water, so that
there was a continual splashing; and close beside them sat an old king
with a golden crown upon his white head: that was King Hroar, near the
fountains, close to the town of Roeskilde, as it is now called. And up
the slope into the old church went all the kings and queens of
Denmark, hand in hand, all with their golden crowns; and the organ
played and the fountains rustled. Little Tuk saw all, heard all. "Do
not forget the diet," said King Hroar.[1] Again all suddenly
disappeared. Yes, and whither? It seemed to him just as if one turned
over a leaf in a book. And now stood there an old peasant-woman, who
came from Soroe,[2] where grass grows in the marketplace.

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[1] Roeskilde, once the capital of Denmark. The town takes its name
from King Hroar, and the many fountains in the neighborhood. In the
beautiful cathedral the greater number of the kings and queens of
Denmark are interred. In Roeskilde, too, the members of the Danish
Diet assemble.

[2] Soroe, a very quiet little town, beautifully situated, surrounded
by woods and lakes. Holberg, Denmark's Moliere, founded here an
academy for the sons of the nobles. The poets Hauch and Ingemann were
appointed professors here. The latter lives there still.

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She had an old grey linen apron hanging over her head and back: it was
so wet, it certainly must have been raining "Yes, that it has," said
she; and she now related many pretty thin