smooth hands steal round from the back of her chair and cover her eyes. And grandmother immediately says, 'It's my sweet grandchild; I'm sure of it, because she never fails to visit me,' and she reaches up to touch a golden head."
"Why, the story's about me," cried the little girl; "grandmother's guess is never wrong."
But the buttercup went on without pretending to hear. "Then the child runs around in front of the chair and kisses her old grandmother. There is gold in that kiss, I am certain," said the buttercup, "because it leaves a mark of itself on grandmother's face; it smoothes out the wrinkles and it makes her eyes shine with joy.
"That's my golden story," said the buttercup; "every child may go home and play it."
And the little child was happy that what she did had been put into a golden story.
—Hans Christian Andersen
HOW THE CLOCKS PLAYED SCHOOL
Three little clocks sat in a row on the mantelpiece. The servant had put them there to wash their faces, but they made believe they had come to school. The tall grandfather clock from the hall was the teacher. The servant had wheeled him in to sweep behind him, but he too made believe he had come to school.
