IT is wintertime． Theearthwearsasnowygarment，and looks like marble hewn out of the rock； the air isbright and clear； thewind is sharp as a well－temperedsword， and the trees stand like branches of white coral orblooming almond twigs， and here it is keenas on the loftyAlps．
The night is splendid with the gleam of the Northern Lights， and with the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars．
The storms come； theclouds arise and shake outtheirswan's down； the snowflakes fly； they cover roadand house， open fields and closed－in streets. But we sitin thewarmroom， by thehot stove，andtalkaboutthe old times．And we listen to thisstory：
By the open sea was a grave mound； and on it sat atmidnight the spirit of the buried hero， who had been a king． The golden circlet gleamed on his brow， his hair fluttered in the wind， and he was clad insteel and iron．He bent hisheadmournfully， and sighed indeep sorrow，as anunquiet spiritmight sigh．
And a ship came sailing by． The sailorslowered the anchor， andlanded. Among themwasa singer，and he approached the royal spirit， andsaid，
"Why mournest thou， andwhereforedost thou suffer thus？"
And the dead man answered，
"No one hath sung the deeds of my life； they aredeadandforgotten：songdothnot carrythemforthover the lands， nor into the hearts of men； thereforeI have norest and no peace."
And he spoke of his works， and of his warlikedeeds， whichhis contemporaries had known， but which hadnotbeen sung，because therewasno singer among his companions．
Then the old bard struck the strings of his harp，and sang of the youthful courage of the hero， of the strength oftheman，and of the greatnessofhis good deeds．Then the faceofthe dead gleamedlike the marginofthe cloud in the moonlight．Gladlyandofgood courage，theformarosein splendour and in majesty， and vanished like theglancingof theNorthernLights． Naughtwastobeseen butthegreen turfymound， with thestones on which no Runic record has been graven； but at thelast sound of the harp there soaredover the hill， as though he had fluttered from the harp， alittle bird， a charming singing-bird， with the ringing voiceof the thrush， with the moving pathos of the human heart，with a voice that told of home， like the voice that is heardby thebirdofpassage．Thesinging－bird soared away，over mountain andvalley， overfieldandwood—he was the Bird of Popular Song，who neverdies.
Wehear his song—we hear it now in theroom on a winter's eveningwhile the"whitebees" are swarming with－out， and the storm takes firm hold． The bird sings notalone the praiseofheroes；hesings also sweetgentle songs oflove，so manyandsowarm，ofNorthernfidelityand truth．He has stories in wordsand in tones； he hasproverbsandsnatchesof proverb；songswhich，likeRunes laid under a dead man's tongue， force him to speak； andthus Popular Song tells of the land of his birth．
In theold heathen days， in the timesofthe Vikings， its nest was in the harp of the bard．
In thedaysof knightly castles， when the strong fist held the scales of justice， when only mightwas right，and a peasant and adogwereofequal importance， where did the Bird of Song find shelter and protection？ Neither vio－lence nor stupidity gave him a thought．
But in the gabled windowoftheknightlycastle，the lady of the castle sat with the parchment roll before her， and wrote down the old recollection in song and legend，while near her stood the old woman from the wood， and thetravelling pedlarwhowentwandering through the country．Asthesetoldtheirtales，thereflutteredaroundthem，withtwittering and song， the Bird of Popular Song， who never dies so long as the earth has a hillock upon which his footmay rest.
And nowhe looksin upon us and sings． Without are thenightand the snow-storm：he laystheRunesbeneath our tongues， and we know the land of our home． Heavenspeaks to us in our native tongue， in the voice of the Birdof PopularSong： theoldremembrancesawake， the faded coloursglow with a fresh lustre， and storyandsong pour us a blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts， so that the eveningbecomesas a Christmas fes- tival．
The snow－flakes chase each other， the ice cracks， the stormrules without， forhehas themight， he is lord－ but not the Lord Of All．
It is wintertime The wind is sharp as a two－edged sword， the snow-flakes chase each other： it seemed as though it had been snowing for daysandweeks， and the snow lies like a great mountain over thewhole town，like a heavydreamof thewinter night．Everything on the earth is hiddenaway， only the golden cross of the church， the symbol of faith， arises over the snow grave，and gleamsinthe blueairand inthe bright sunshine. Andovertheburied town fly the birds of heaven， the smalland thegreat； they twitterand they sing asbestthey may， each bird with his own beak．
First comes theband of sparrows： they pipe at everytrifle in the streets and lanes， in the nests and the hous- es； theyhave stories totellabout thefront buildings and the back buildings．
"Weknow theburied town，"they say；"everything living in it is piep！ piep!piep！"
The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow．
"Grub， grub！" they cried．"There's something to be got down there； something to swallow， and that's mostimportant． That's the opinion of most of them down thereand the opinion is goo—goo—good！"
The wild swans come flying on whirring pinions， andsingofthenobleandthegreat， that will still sprout in the hearts of men， down in the townwhich is restingbeneath its snowy veil．
No death is there—lifereigns yonder； we hear it on the notes that swell onward like the tones of the church or- gan， which seize us like sounds from the elf－hill， like thesongs of Ossian， like the rushing swoop of the War－maid－ens' wings．What harmony！Thatharmony speaks to our hearts， and lifts upoursouls！—Itis the Bird of Popular Song whom we hear．
And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the sky．There are gaps in the snowy moun－ tains， the sun shines into the clefts； spring is coming， thebirds are returning，and new races are coming with the same home sounds in their hearts.
Hear the story of the year:"The might of the snow- storm, the heavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved, all shall rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song who never dies!"
民歌的鸟儿
这正是冬天。大地披上了雪装，看起来很像从石山雕刻出来的一块大理石。天很高，而且晴朗。寒风像妖精炼出的一把钢刀，非常尖锐。树木看起来像珊瑚或盛开的杏树的枝子。这儿的空气是像阿尔卑斯山上的那样清新。
北极光和无数闪耀着的星星，使这一夜显得非常美丽。
暴风吹起来了。飞行的云块撒下一层天鹅的绒毛。漫天飞舞的雪花，盖满了寂寞的路、房子、空旷的田野和无人的街。但是我们坐在温暖的房间里，坐在熊熊的火炉边，谈论着古时候的事情。我们听到了这样一个故事：
在大海边有一座古代战士的坟墓。坟墓上坐着这位埋在地下的英雄的幽灵。他曾经是一个国王。他的额上射出一道金色的光圈，长发在空中飞舞，全身穿着铠甲。他悲哀地垂着头，痛苦地叹着气——像一个没有得救的灵魂。
这时有一艘船在旁边经过。水手们抛下锚，走到陆地上来。他们中间有一个歌手。他走近这位皇家的幽灵，问道：
“你为什么要这样悲哀和难过呢？”
幽灵回答说：“谁也没有歌唱过我的一生的事迹。这些事迹现在死亡了，消逝了。没有什么歌把它们传播到全国，把它们送到人民的心里去。因此我得不到安宁，得不到休息。”
于是这个人就谈起他的事业和他的伟大的功绩。他的同时代的人都知道这些事情，不过没有人把它们唱出来，因为他们之中没有歌手。
这位年老的弹唱诗人拨动他的竖琴上的琴弦。他歌唱这个英雄青年时代的英勇，壮年时代的威武，和他的伟大的事迹。幽灵的面孔射出了光彩，像反映着月光的云彩。幽灵在光华灿烂的景象中，怀着愉快和幸福的心情，站起来，接着就像一道北极光似地不见了。除了一座盖满了绿草的土丘以外，现在什么也没有了——连一块刻有龙尼文字的石碑也没有。但是当琴弦发出最后的声音的时候，忽然有一只歌鸟飞出来——好像是直接从竖琴里飞出来似的。它是一只非常美丽的歌鸟，它有画眉一样响亮的声调，人心一样搏动的颤音和那种使人怀乡的、候鸟所带来的家乡的谣曲。这只歌鸟越过高山和深谷，越过田野和森林，飞走了。它是一只民歌的鸟，它永远不会死亡。
我们听到它的歌。我们在房间里，在一个冬天的晚上，听到它的歌；而外面的“蜜蜂”正漫天地飞舞，暴风雪正在肆虐。这只鸟儿不仅仅唱着关于英雄的颂歌，它还唱着甜蜜的、温柔的、丰富多样的爱情的颂歌。它还歌颂北国的纯朴的风气。它可以用字句和歌调讲出许多故事。它知道许多谚语和诗的语言。这些语言，像藏在死人舌头底下的龙尼诗句一样，使它不得不唱出来。这样，“民歌的鸟儿”就使我们能够认识我们的祖国。
在异教徒的时代，在威金人的时代，它的窝是筑在竖琴诗人的竖琴上的。
在骑士的时代里，拳头掌握着公理的尺度，武力就是正义，农民和狗处于同等的地位——在这个时代里，这只歌鸟到什么地方去找避难所呢？暴力和愚蠢一点也不考虑它的这个问题。
但是骑士城堡里的女主人坐在城堡的窗前，把她旧时的回忆，在她面前的羊皮纸上写成故事和歌。在一个茅屋里，有一个旅行的小贩坐在一个农家妇人身边的凳子上讲故事。正在这时候，这只歌鸟就在他们头上飞翔，喃喃地叫着，唱着。只要大地上还有一块它可以立足的山丘，这只“民歌的鸟儿”就永远不会死亡。
它现在对我们坐在屋子里的人唱。外面是暴风雪和黑夜。它把龙尼文的诗句放在我们的舌头底下，于是我们就认识了我们祖先的国土。上帝通过“民歌的鸟儿”的歌调，对我们讲着我们母亲的语言。古时的记忆复活了，黯淡的颜色发出新的光彩。传说和民歌像幸福的美酒，把我们的灵魂和思想陶醉了，使这一晚变成了一个耶稣圣诞的节日。
雪花在飞舞，冰块在碎裂。外面在起着风暴。风暴有巨大的威力，它主宰着一切——但它不是我们的上帝。
这正是冬天。寒风像妖精炼出的一把钢刀。雪花在乱飞——在我们看起来，似乎飞了好几天和好几个星期。它像一座巨大的雪山压在整个城市上，它像一个冬夜里的沉重的梦。地上的一切东西都被掩盖住了，只有教堂的金十字架——信心的象征——高高地立在这个雪冢上，在蓝色的空中，在光明的太阳光里，射出光辉。
在这个被埋葬了的城市的上空，飞翔着大大小小的太空的鸟。每只鸟儿放开歌喉，尽情地歌唱，尽情地歌唱。
最先飞来的是一群麻雀：它们把大街小巷里、窝里和房子里的一切小事情全部讲了出来。它们知道前屋里的事情，也知道后屋里的事情。
“我们知道这个被埋葬了的城市，”它们说。“所有住在里面的人都在吱！吱！吱！”
黑色的大渡鸦和乌鸦在白雪上飞过。
“呱！呱！”它们叫着。“雪底下还有一些东西，一些可以吃的东西——这是最重要的事情。这是下面大多数人的意见。而这意见是对——对——对的！”
野天鹅飕飕地拍着翅膀飞来。它们歌唱着伟大和高贵的感情。这种感情将要从人的思想和灵魂中产生出来——这些人现在住在被雪埋着的城里。
那里面并没有死亡，那里面仍然有生命存在。这一点我们可以从歌调中听出来。歌调像是从教堂的风琴中发出来的；它像妖山上的闹声，像奥仙的歌声，像瓦尔古里的飕飕的拍翅声，吸引住我们的注意力。多么和谐的声音啊！这种和声透进我们的心的深处，使我们的思想变得高超——这就是我们听到的“民歌的鸟儿”的歌声！正在这时候，天空温暖的气息从上面吹下来。雪山裂开了，太阳光从裂缝里射进去。春天到来了；鸟儿回来了；新的一代，心里带着同样的故乡的声音，也回来了。请听这一年的故事吧：狂暴的风雪，冬夜的噩梦！一切将会消逝，一切将会从不灭的“民歌的鸟儿”的悦耳的歌声中获得新的生命。
这篇小品发表在哥本哈根1865年出版的《丹麦大众历书》上。“民歌的鸟儿”在这儿是一个象征性的形象化的名词，代表一个国家和民族的优良传统，歌唱英雄的业绩和甜蜜的、温柔的、丰富多样的爱情以及纯朴的风气；还可以用字句和歌调讲出许多故事。这样，“民歌的鸟儿”“就使我们能够认识我们的祖国”。
