The story begins with a fairytale wedding. Waiting in the wings of the celebrations, is the “Remarkable Rocket” who is making ready to go out with a spectacular display. We soon learn that he is a most egotistical firework, who loves to talk about his own superiority – much to the annoyance of the other fireworks in the box.

This children’s story by Oscar Wilde is full of sparkling dialogue, rather like his stage plays, and not quite so much like his other more spiritual fairy tales. You can enjoy some of the master’s salty wit for which he was famous, such as :

“Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.”

It’s a lengthy story sustained by the many voices of Elizabeth.

Read by Elizabeth. Duration 35.55. By Oscar Wilde.

The King’s son was going to be married, so there were general
rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last
she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all
the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge
was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan’s wings
lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine-cloak reached
right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver
tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had
always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the
streets all the people wondered. “She is like a white rose!” they
cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.

At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her.
He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When
he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.

“Your picture was beautiful,” he murmured, “but you are more
beautiful than your picture”; and the little Princess blushed.

“She was like a white rose before,” said a young Page to his
neighbour, “but she is like a red rose now”; and the whole Court
was delighted.

For the next three days everybody went about saying, “White rose,
Red rose, Red rose, White rose”; and the King gave orders that the
Page’s salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all
this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great
honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.

When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was
a magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in
hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little
pearls. Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five
hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall
and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could
drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey
and dull and cloudy.

“It’s quite clear that they love each other,” said the little Page,
“as clear as crystal!” and the King doubled his salary a second
time. “What an honour!” cried all the courtiers.

After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom
were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to
play the flute. He played very badly, but no-one had ever dared to
tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two
airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it
made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out,
“Charming! charming!”

The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to
be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen
a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal
Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.

“What are fireworks like?” she had asked the Prince, one morning,
as she was walking on the terrace.

“They are like the Aurora Borealis,” said the King, who always
answered questions that were addressed to other people, “only much
more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know
when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own
flute-playing. You must certainly see them.”

So at the end of the King’s garden a great stand had been set up,
and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its
proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other.

“The world is certainly very beautiful,” cried a little Squib.
“Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers
they could not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled.
Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one’s
prejudices.”

“The King’s garden is not the world, you foolish squib,” said a big
Roman Candle; “the world is an enormous place, and it would take
you three days to see it thoroughly.”

“Any place you love is the world to you,” exclaimed a pensive
Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early
life, and prided herself on her broken heart; “but love is not
fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much
about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True
love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once–But it is no
matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.”

“Nonsense!” said the Roman Candle, “Romance never dies. It is like
the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for
instance, love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this
morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in
the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest Court news.”

But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. “Romance is dead, Romance
is dead, Romance is dead,” she murmured. She was one of those
people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a
great many times, it becomes true in the end.

Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.

It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to
the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any
observation, so as to attract attention.

“Ahem! ahem!” he said, and everybody listened except the poor
Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring,
“Romance is dead.”

“Order! order!” cried out a Cracker. He was something of a
politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local
elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.

“Quite dead,” whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to
sleep.

As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third
time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if
he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder
of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most
distinguished manner.

“How fortunate it is for the King’s son,” he remarked, “that he is
to be married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really,
if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out
better for him; but, Princes are always lucky.”

“Dear me!” said the little Squib, “I thought it was quite the other
way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince’s honour.”

“It may be so with you,” he answered; “indeed, I have no doubt that
it is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket,
and come of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated
Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful
dancing. When she made her great public appearance she spun round
nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so
she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three feet and a
half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder. My father
was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so
high that the people were afraid that he would never come down
again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he
made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain. The
newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms.
Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art.”

“Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean,” said a Bengal Light; “I know
it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister.”

“Well, I said Pylotechnic,” answered the Rocket, in a severe tone
of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at
once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still
a person of some importance.

“I was saying,” continued the Rocket, “I was saying–What was I
saying?”

“You were talking about yourself,” replied the Roman Candle.

“Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I
was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of
every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No-one in the whole
world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that.”

“What is a sensitive person?” said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.

“A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other
people’s toes,” answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the
Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.

“Pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the Rocket; “I am not
laughing.”

“I am laughing because I am happy,” replied the Cracker.

“That is a very selfish reason,” said the Rocket angrily. “What
right have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others.
In fact, you should be thinking about me. I am always thinking
about myself, and I expect everybody else to do the same. That is
what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess
it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to
me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The
Prince and Princess would never be happy again, their whole married
life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get
over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance of my
position, I am almost moved to tears.”

“If you want to give pleasure to others,” cried the Roman Candle,
“you had better keep yourself dry.”

“Certainly,” exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better
spirits; “that is only common sense.”

“Common sense, indeed!” said the Rocket indignantly; “you forget
that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can
have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I
have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I
always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping
myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all
appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don’t
care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the
consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and
this is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you
have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if
the Prince and Princess had not just been married.”

“Well, really,” exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, “why not? It is a
most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to
tell the stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk
to them about the pretty bride.”

“Ah! what a trivial view of life!” said the Rocket; “but it is only
what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and
empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a
country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one
only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince
himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse;
and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and
perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned.
What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son!
It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it.”

“But they have not lost their only son,” said the Roman Candle; “no
misfortune has happened to them at all.”

“I never said that they had,” replied the Rocket; “I said that they
might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in
saying anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over
spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose their only son,
I certainly am very much affected.”

“You certainly are!” cried the Bengal Light. “In fact, you are the
most affected person I ever met.”

“You are the rudest person I ever met,” said the Rocket, “and you
cannot understand my friendship for the Prince.”

“Why, you don’t even know him,” growled the Roman Candle.

“I never said I knew him,” answered the Rocket. “I dare say that
if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very
dangerous thing to know one’s friends.”

“You had really better keep yourself dry,” said the Fire-balloon.
“That is the important thing.”

“Very important for you, I have no doubt,” answered the Rocket,
“but I shall weep if I choose”; and he actually burst into real
tears, which flowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly
drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up
house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in.

“He must have a truly romantic nature,” said the Catherine Wheel,
“for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about”; and she
heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box.

But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and
kept saying, “Humbug! humbug!” at the top of their voices. They
were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything
they called it humbug.

Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars
began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.

The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so
beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and
watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat
time.

Then ten o’clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at
the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and
the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.

“Let the fireworks begin,” said the King; and the Royal
Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the
garden. He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a
lighted torch at the end of a long pole.

It was certainly a magnificent display.

Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and
round. Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced
all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look
scarlet. “Good-bye,” cried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away,
dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who
were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success
except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he
could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder,
and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor
relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot
up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of
fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess
laughed with pleasure.

“I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion,” said the
Rocket; “no doubt that is what it means,” and he looked more
supercilious than ever.

The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. “This is
evidently a deputation,” said the Rocket; “I will receive them with
becoming dignity” so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown
severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject.
But they took no notice of him at all till they were just going
away. Then one of them caught sight of him. “Hallo!” he cried,
“what a bad rocket!” and he threw him over the wall into the ditch.

“BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?” he said, as he whirled through the air;
“impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and
GRAND sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same”;
and he fell into the mud.

“It is not comfortable here,” he remarked, “but no doubt it is some
fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit
my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I
require rest.”

Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled
coat, swam up to him.

“A new arrival, I see!” said the Frog. “Well, after all there is
nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am
quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I
hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!”

“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket, and he began to cough.

“What a delightful voice you have!” cried the Frog. “Really it is
quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical
sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We
sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer’s house, and as soon
as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that everybody
lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I
heard the farmer’s wife say to her mother that she could not get a
wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is most gratifying to
find oneself so popular.”

“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed
that he could not get a word in.

“A delightful voice, certainly,” continued the Frog; “I hope you
will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my
daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the
Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and would have no
hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have
enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you.”

“Conversation, indeed!” said the Rocket. “You have talked the
whole time yourself. That is not conversation.”

“Somebody must listen,” answered the Frog, “and I like to do all
the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments.”

“But I like arguments,” said the Rocket.

“I hope not,” said the Frog complacently. “Arguments are extremely
vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same
opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the
distance and the little Frog swam away.

“You are a very irritating person,” said the Rocket, “and very ill-
bred. I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one
wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call
selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially
to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my
sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you
could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the
chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to
Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in
fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour.
Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a
provincial.”

“There is no good talking to him,” said a Dragon-fly, who was
sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; “no good at all, for
he has gone away.”

“Well, that is his loss, not mine,” answered the Rocket. “I am not
going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention.
I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I
often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever
that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am
saying.”

“Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy,” said the Dragon-
fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away
into the sky.

“How very silly of him not to stay here!” said the Rocket. “I am
sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind.
However, I don’t care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be
appreciated some day”; and he sank down a little deeper into the
mud.

After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow
legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account
of her waddle.

“Quack, quack, quack,” she said. “What a curious shape you are!
May I ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an
accident?”

“It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,”
answered the Rocket, “otherwise you would know who I am. However,
I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people
to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to
hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of
golden rain.”

“I don’t think much of that,” said the Duck, “as I cannot see what
use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the
ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the
collie-dog, that would be something.”

“My good creature,” cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of
voice, “I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my
position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and
that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with
industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem
to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard work
is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.”

“Well, well,” said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable
disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, “everybody has
different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take
up your residence here.”

“Oh! dear no,” cried the Rocket. “I am merely a visitor, a
distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather
tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it
is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back to Court, for I
know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world.”

“I had thoughts of entering public life once myself,” remarked the
Duck; “there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I
took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed
resolutions condemning everything that we did not like. However,
they did not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for
domesticity, and look after my family.”

“I am made for public life,” said the Rocket, “and so are all my
relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite
great attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I
do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages
one rapidly, and distracts one’s mind from higher things.”

“Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!” said the Duck;
“and that reminds me how hungry I feel”: and she swam away down
the stream, saying, “Quack, quack, quack.”

“Come back! come back!” screamed the Rocket, “I have a great deal
to say to you”; but the Duck paid no attention to him. “I am glad
that she has gone,” he said to himself, “she has a decidedly
middle-class mind”; and he sank a little deeper still into the mud,
and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly
two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a
kettle and some faggots.

“This must be the deputation,” said the Rocket, and he tried to
look very dignified.

“Hallo!” cried one of the boys, “look at this old stick! I wonder
how it came here”; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.

“OLD Stick!” said the Rocket, “impossible! GOLD Stick, that is
what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he
mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!”

“Let us put it into the fire!” said the other boy, “it will help to
boil the kettle.”

So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and
lit the fire.

“This is magnificent,” cried the Rocket, “they are going to let me
off in broad day-light, so that every one can see me.”

“We will go to sleep now,” they said, “and when we wake up the
kettle will be boiled”; and they lay down on the grass, and shut
their eyes.

The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last,
however, the fire caught him.

“Now I am going off!” he cried, and he made himself very stiff and
straight. “I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much
higher than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall
go so high that–”

Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.

“Delightful!” he cried, “I shall go on like this for ever. What a
success I am!”

But nobody saw him.

Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.

“Now I am going to explode,” he cried. “I shall set the whole
world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about
anything else for a whole year.” And he certainly did explode.
Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it.

But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were
sound asleep.

Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on
the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.

“Good heavens!” cried the Goose. “It is going to rain sticks”; and
she rushed into the water.

“I knew I should create a great sensation,” gasped the Rocket, and
he went out.

This classic story by Oscar Wilde is set in a garden that is not unlike paradise. Children play freely among the trees and flowers. And then the owner, The Selfish Giant, returns from a long holiday and drives out the children. But all is not lost, for the giant finds redemption through a child.

If you like this story, you might also enjoy The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde.

Read by Natasha. Duration 14.12. Text by Oscar Wilde.

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED

He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were there,” they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.

“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! little boy,” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.

“But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the tree.”

“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”

“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

Oscar Wilde’s story of a statue and a swallow is both beautiful and sad. We feel it captures much of the spirit of Easter (our reasons for thinking this are explained here). The statue was once a prince, who enjoyed a life of pleasure. He lived in a palace surrounded by a walled garden, and had no idea that anybody else could be poor or sad. Now that he is a statue, high above the city, he can see that his happiness is not shared by all. He is covered with gold and his face is made of precious jewels. And so he enlists the help of a swallow to take his riches to the poor and those in need of help.

The Happy Prince is longer than our usual stories – at 32 Minutes. It is, of course, read by Natasha.

HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. ‘He is as beautiful as a weathercock,’ remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; ‘only not quite so useful,’ he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

‘Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?’ asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. ‘The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.’

‘I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,’ muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

‘He looks just like an angel,’ said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.

‘How do you know?’ said the Mathematical Master, ‘you have never seen one.’

‘Ah! but we have, in our dreams,’ answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.

‘Shall I love you?’ said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

‘It is a ridiculous attachment,’ twittered the other Swallows, ‘she has no money, and far too many relations;’ and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. ‘She has no conversation,’ he said, ‘and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.’ And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. ‘I admit that she is domestic,’ he continued, ‘but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.’

‘Will you come away with me?’ he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

‘You have been trifling with me,’ he cried, ‘I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!’ and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night time he arrived at the city. ‘Where shall I put up?’ he said; ‘I hope the town has made preparations.’

Then he saw the statue on the tall column. ‘I will put up there,’ he cried; ‘it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.’ So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

‘I have a golden bedroom,’ he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. ‘What a curious thing!’ he cried, ‘there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.’

Then another drop fell.

‘What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?’ he said; ‘I must look for a good chimney-pot,’ and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw – Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

‘Who are you?’ he said.

‘I am the Happy Prince.’

‘Why are you weeping then?’ asked the Swallow; ‘you have quite drenched me.’

‘When I was alive and had a human heart,’ answered the statue, ‘I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.’

‘What, is he not solid gold?’ said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

‘Far away,’ continued the statue in a low musical voice, ‘far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.’

‘I am waited for in Egypt,’ said the Swallow. ‘My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.’

‘Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.’

‘I don’t think I like boys,’ answered the Swallow. ‘Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.’

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. ‘It is very cold here,’ he said; ‘but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.’

‘Thank you, little Swallow,’ said the Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. ‘How wonderful the stars are,’ he said to her, and how wonderful is the power of love!’

‘I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State ball,’ she answered; ‘I have ordered passion flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.’

At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. ‘How cool I feel,’ said the boy, ‘I must be getting better;’ and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. ‘It is curious,’ he remarked, ‘but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.’

‘That is because you have done a good action,’ said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. ‘What a remarkable phenomenon,’ said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. ‘A swallow in winter!’ And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.

‘Tonight I go to Egypt,’ said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, ‘What a distinguished stranger!’ so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. ‘Have you any commissions for Egypt?’ he cried; ‘I am just starting.’

‘Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘will you not stay with me one night longer?’

‘I am waited for in Egypt,’ answered the Swallow. ‘Tomorrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the god Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.’

‘Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,’ said the prince, ‘far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.’

‘I will wait with you one night longer,’ said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. ‘Shall I take him another ruby?’

‘Alas! I have no ruby now,’ said the Prince; ‘my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.’

‘Dear Prince,’ said the Swallow, ‘I cannot do that;’ and he began to weep.

‘Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘do as I command you.’

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.

‘I am beginning to be appreciated,’ he cried; ‘this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,’ and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. ‘Heave a-hoy!’ they shouted as each chest came up. ‘I am going to Egypt!’ cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

‘I am come to bid you good-bye,’ he cried.

‘Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘will you not stay with me one night longer?’

‘It is winter,’ answered the Swallow, ‘and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.’

‘In the square below,’ said the Happy Prince, ‘there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.’

‘I will stay with you one night longer,’ said the Swallow, ‘but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.’

‘Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘do as I command you.’

So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. ‘What a lovely bit of glass,’ cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. ‘You are blind now,’ he said, ‘so I will stay with you always.’

‘No, little Swallow,’ said the poor Prince, ‘you must go away to Egypt.’

‘I will stay with you always,’ said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince’s feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

‘Dear little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.’

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves warm. ‘How hungry we are!’ they said. ‘You must not lie here,’ shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

‘I am covered with fine gold,’ said the Prince, ‘you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.’

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. ‘We have bread now!’ they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door where the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. ‘Good-bye, dear Prince!’ he murmured, ‘will you let me kiss your hand?’

‘I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.’

‘It is not to Egypt that I am going,’ said the Swallow. ‘I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?’

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: ‘Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!’ he said.

‘How shabby indeed!’ cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.

‘The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,’ said the Mayor; ‘in fact, he is little better than a beggar!’

‘Little better than a beggar’ said the Town councillors.

‘And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!’ continued the Mayor. ‘We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.’ And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. ‘As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,’ said the Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. ‘We must have another statue, of course,’ he said, ‘and it shall be a statue of myself.’

‘Of myself,’ said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

‘What a strange thing!’ said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. ‘This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.’ So they threw it on a dust heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.

‘Bring me the two most precious things in the city,’ said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.

‘You have rightly chosen,’ said God, ‘for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.’