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“Yes,” cried the eldest boy. “It does not seem fair that only one should wish. I am the eldest. I begin. I shall wish that Twelfth-night would come twice a year.”

“They cannot give you that, I am sure,” said Friedrich, his brother, who sat by him.

“Then,” said the boy, “I wish father may take me with him the next time he goes out bear-shooting.”

“I wish for a white kitten with blue eyes,” said a little girl whose name was Therese.

“I shall wish to find an amber necklace that does not belong to any one,” said another little girl.

“I wish to be a king,” said a boy whose name was Karl. “No, I think I shall wish to be the burgomaster, that I may go on board the ships in the harbor, and make their captains show me what is in them. I shall see how the sailors make their sails go up.”

“I shall wish to marry Hulda,” said another boy; “when I am a man I mean. And besides that, I wish I may find a black puppy in my room at home, for I love dogs.”

“But that is not fair,” said the other children. “You must only wish for one thing, as we did.”

“But I really wish for both,” said the boy.

“If you wish for both perhaps you will get neither,” said little Hulda.

“Well, then,” answered the boy, “I wish for the puppy.”

And so they all went on wishing till at last it came to Hulda’s turn.

“What do you wish for, my child?” said her mother.

“Not for anything at all,” she answered, shaking her head.

“Oh, but you must wish for something!” cried all the children.

“Yes,” said her mother, “and I am now going to cut the cake. See, Hulda, the knife is going into it. Think of something.”

“Well, then,” answered the little girl, “I cannot think of anything else, so I shall wish that you may all have your wishes.”

Upon this the knife went crunching down into the cake, the children gave three cheers, and the white waxen tulip bud at the top came tumbling on the table, and while they were all looking it opened its leaves, and out of the middle of it stepped a beautiful little fairy woman, no taller than your finger. She had a white robe on, a little crown on her long yellow hair; there were two wings on her shoulders, just like the downy brown wings of a butterfly, and in her hand she had a little sceptre sparkling with precious stones.

“Only one wish,” she said, jumping down on to the table, and speaking with the smallest little voice you ever heard. “Your fathers and mothers were always contented if we gave them one wish every year.”

As she spoke, Hulda’s mother gave a slice of cake to each child, and, when Hulda took hers, out dropped the ring, and fell clattering on her platter.

“Only one wish,” repeated the fairy. And the children were all so much astonished (for even in those days fairies were but rarely seen) that none of them spoke a word, not even in a whisper. “Only one wish. Speak, then, little Hulda, for I am one of that race which delights to give pleasure and to do good. Is there really nothing that you wish, for you shall certainly have it if there is?”

“There was nothing, dear fairy, before I saw you,” answered the little girl, in a hesitating tone.

“But now there is?” asked the fairy. “Tell it me, then, and you shall have it.”

“I wish for that pretty little sceptre of yours,” said Hulda, pointing to the fairy’s wand.

The moment Hulda said this the fairy shuddered and became pale, her brilliant colors faded, and she looked to the children’s eyes like a thin white mist standing still in her place. The sceptre, on the contrary, became brighter than ever, and the precious stones glowed like burning coals.