Snow was falling into the narrow streets, and the lamps had already been lit, though the evening was not yet old. Along the frozen stones walked a little girl with a bundle of matches in her apron and more in her hand. Her head was bare, and her slippers were gone. One had been lost in the rush of wheels and boots, while the other had been carried off by a boy who laughed and ran away with it. So she went on with small, red feet in the snow, calling out in a thin voice, "Matches. Fine matches."
No one stopped, though windows shone with supper light and doors opened and shut. The smell of roast goose drifted into the street, only to be taken away again by the wind. The little girl looked down at the matches in her hand, for she had not sold a single one. She knew the room at home was dark and the roof let in the weather, and she was afraid to go back with all her matches unsold. So, when the street grew emptier and the bells rang the evening hour, she slipped into the corner between two houses and sat down, drawing her feet beneath her.
The walls made a narrow shelter, though the snow still found her. Above her, flakes crossed the sky like white feathers, while in her apron lay the little bundle of matches, dry and straight. She took one out, held it for a moment, and …
6 chapters
