once upon a time there was an old poet-one of those good, honest old poets. one evening, as he was sitting quietly in his home, a terrible storm broke out-the rain poured down in torrents-but the old poet sat warm and cozy in his study, for a fire blazed brightly in his stove and roasting apples sizzled and hissed beside it.
"there won't be a dry stitch on anybody out in this rain," he told himself. you see, he was a very kindhearted old poet.
"oh, please open the door for me! i'm so cold and wet!" cried a little child outside his house. then it knocked at the door, while the rain poured down and the wind shook all the windows.
"why, the poor little child!" cried the old poet as he hurried to open the door. before him stood a naked little boy, with the water streaming down from his yellow hair! he was shivering, and would certainly have perished in the storm had he not been let in.
"you poor little fellow!" said the poet again, and took him by the hand. "come in, and we'll soon have you warmed up! i shall give you some wine and a roasted apple, for you're such a pretty little boy."
and he really was pretty! his eyes sparkled like two bright stars, and his hair hung in lovely curls, even though the water was still streaming from it. he looked like a little angel, but he was pale with the cold and shivering in every limb. in his hand he held a beautiful little bow-and-arrow set, but the bow had been ruined by the rain, and all the colors on the arrows had run together.
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