ENGLISH

The shroud

DANSK

Ligskjorten


There was once a mother who had a little boy of seven years old, who was so handsome and lovable that no one could look at him without liking him, and she herself worshipped him above everything in the world. Now it so happened that he suddenly became ill, and God took him to himself; and for this the mother could not be comforted, and wept both day and night. But soon afterwards, when the child had been buried, it appeared by night in the places where it had sat and played during its life, and if the mother wept, it wept also, and when morning came it disappeared. As, however, the mother would not stop crying, it came one night, in the little white shroud in which it had been laid in its coffin, and with its wreath of flowers round its head, and stood on the bed at her feet, and said, "Oh, mother, do stop crying, or I shall never fall asleep in my coffin, for my shroud will not dry because of all thy tears, which fall upon it." The mother was afraid when she heard that, and wept no more. The next night the child came again, and held a little light in its hand, and said, "Look, mother, my shroud is nearly dry, and I can rest in my grave." Then the mother gave her sorrow into God's keeping, and bore it quietly and patiently, and the child came no more, but slept in its little bed beneath the earth.
Der var engang en mor, som havde en lille dreng på syv år. Han var så sød og god, at alle, der så ham, holdt af ham, og hans mor elskede ham også over alt på jorden. Men pludselig blev han syg, og den gode Gud tog ham op til sig. Den stakkels mor var fortvivlet og græd dag og nat. Kort tid efter, at den lille dreng var begravet, viste han sig om natten for sin mor på de steder, hvor han havde løbet omkring og leget, mens han levede. Når hun græd, græd han også, og om morgenen forsvandt han igen. Men da hans mor slet ikke ville holde op med at græde, kom han en nat i sin hvide ligskjorte, som han havde haft på, da han blev lagt i kisten, og med sin lille krans på hovedet, satte sig ved foden af hendes seng og sagde: "Hold op med at græde, lille mor, ellers kan jeg ikke falde i søvn i min kiste. Min ligskjorte er så våd af alle dine tårer." Moderen blev forfærdet og holdt op med at græde. Næste nat kom drengen igen med et lille lys i hånden og sagde: "Kan du se, nu er min skjorte snart tør, så får jeg ro i min grav." Da bad moderen til Gud og bar sin sorg stille og tålmodigt. Barnet kom ikke mere igen, men sov roligt i sin seng nede i jorden.





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