Prevod

Once upon a time there was an old poet, a truly good old poet. One evening, as he sat at home, a dreadful storm broke out; the rain poured down, but the old poet sat snug and warm beside his stove, where the fire blazed and the apples sizzled.

"There won't be a dry thread on the poor souls out in this weather!" he said, for he was such a good poet. "Oh, let me in! I'm freezing, and I'm so wet!" cried a little child outside. It was crying and knocking at the door while the rain poured down and the wind rattled all the windows.

"You poor little thing!" said the old poet, and went to open the door. There stood a little boy; he was quite naked, and water streamed from his long golden hair. He was trembling with cold; had he not been let in, he would surely have died in that dreadful weather.

"You poor little thing!" said the old poet, taking him by the hand. "Come here to me, and I'll soon get you warm! You shall have some wine and an apple, for you're a lovely boy!"

And so he was. His eyes shone like two bright stars, and although the water ran down his golden hair, it still curled so prettily. He looked like a little angel, but he was so pale with cold and trembling all over. In his hand he held a beautiful bow, but it was quite spoiled by the rain; all the colours on the lovely arrows had run together in the wet weather.

The old poet sat down beside the stove, took the little boy on his lap, wrung the water from his hair, warmed his hands in his own, and heated some sweet wine for him. Soon the boy recovered, his cheeks grew rosy, and he jumped down onto the floor and danced round the old poet.

"You're a merry boy!" said the old man. "What's your name?" "My name is Amor!" he answered. "Don't you know me? There's my bow! I shoot with it, I can tell you! Look, the weather's clearing outside; the moon is shining!"

"But your bow is spoiled!" said the old poet. "What a pity!" said the little boy, picking it up and examining it. "Oh, it's quite dry; it hasn't suffered any harm at all! The string is perfectly taut! Now I'll try it!" Then he drew the bow, fitted an arrow, took aim, and shot the good old poet straight through the heart. "Now you can see that my bow wasn't spoiled!" he said, laughing aloud, and ran away. The naughty boy! To shoot the old poet like that, when he had let him into his warm room, been so kind to him, and given him that lovely wine and the very best apple.

The good poet lay on the floor and wept, for he really had been shot straight through the heart. Then he said, "Shame on Amor! What a naughty boy he is! I shall tell all good children about him, so they can be on their guard and never play with him, for he will hurt them!"

All the good children, girls and boys, whom he told took great care to guard against wicked Amor, but he fooled them all the same, for he is so cunning! When the students leave their lectures, he runs along beside them with a book under his arm and a black gown on. They cannot recognise him at all, so they take him by the arm, thinking he is a student too; but then he thrusts his arrow into their chests. When the girls leave their lessons with the pastor, and when they stand in church, he is after them too. Yes, he is always after people! He sits in the great chandelier at the theatre, blazing so brightly that people think he is a lamp, but afterwards they discover otherwise. He runs about in Kongens Have and on Volden! Why, he once shot your father and mother straight through the heart! Just ask them, and you'll hear what they say. Yes, Amor is a wicked boy, and you must never have anything to do with him! He is after everyone. Just think, he even shot an arrow at old Grandmother, but that was long ago, and she has got over it; still, she will never forget such a thing. Shame on wicked Amor! But now you know him! You know what a naughty boy he is!