The Little Match Girl

Snow fell soft and quiet on the last evening of the year. The city glowed with lamplight and laughter, but the winter wind was sharp, and it nipped like a little animal. Through the cold streets walked a small girl in a thin dress. She had no hat. Her hair was dusted with snowflakes that looked like tiny stars.

She carried a bundle of matches and a few boxes under her arm. She had to sell them. All day she had called out, "Matches! Who will buy my matches?" But not one person had stopped. Now her feet were bare. Earlier, she had worn slippers—her mother’s old ones, far too big for her. They had slipped off when she hurried across the street to avoid a carriage. One slipper was lost, and a boy had run away with the other, laughing that someday he would use it as a cradle for his own child.

The little match girl’s toes were red and blue with cold. She pressed herself into a corner between two houses and drew her knees up under her dress, trying to make herself small. Behind the windows all around, candles shone. Delicious smells drifted out—roast goose, warm bread, spices. People were gathering at tables, ready to welcome the New Year. The girl’s stomach rumbled softly.

She did not dare go home. She had not sold a single match. Her father would be terribly angry, she knew. Besides, home was not warm. The wind sneaked through cracks in the roof, even though straw had been stuffed in to keep it out. She shivered and looked down at the matches in her hand. If she lit just one, she thought, perhaps she could warm her fingers. One little match couldn’t hurt.

She struck a match against the wall. Tssk! The flame leaped up, bright and golden. It flickered like a tiny flower of fire. The light felt kind and alive, and as she held out her hands, the cold stepped back. In the glow, she saw something wonderful: a great iron stove with shiny brass knobs stood before her, glowing red with heat. How the flames danced behind its glass door! She stretched her feet toward it—and then the match went out. The stove vanished. She was back in the dark corner, with only the snow and the wind.

“Another match,” she whispered. She struck a second one. It hissed and bloomed, and the wall became transparent like a curtain made of light. Through it she saw a long table covered with a white cloth. There were plates and cups and a gleaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and prunes. Steam rose from it, and its smell filled the air. It seemed to waddle straight toward her, knife and fork tucked in its side, as if it meant to serve itself. She laughed in surprise, and then—pfft—the match died. The table and the goose were gone. She sat once more in the snow.

She lit a third match. This time she was under the tallest, most beautiful Christmas tree she had ever seen. Its branches were thick with green needles, and a thousand tiny candles twinkled like stars. Colorful balls and sparkling figures hung down. She reached out to touch one, and the lights climbed higher and higher until they were not candles at all but stars flying up into the night. One star fell, streaking across the sky and leaving a silver tail.

“Someone has just gone to heaven,” the little girl said softly. Her grandmother—oh, her dear grandmother, the only person who had ever been truly kind to her—had told her that when a star falls, a soul rises.

She quickly lit another match. In the gentle light stood her grandmother herself, bright and smiling, more beautiful and warm than she had ever been in life. “Grandmother!” the girl cried. “Please, take me with you. Don’t go away when the match goes out!”

She struck match after match, for she knew that when the light faded, her grandmother would disappear. The matches burned like a crown of little suns, and the night grew as bright as day. Her grandmother reached out her arms, and the girl stepped into them. She felt no hunger now, no cold, no fear—only the safest, happiest feeling she had ever known.

“Come,” said the grandmother, and her voice was like the softest blanket. Together they rose, higher and higher. They were carried by light, past the snow, past the rooftops, past the sound of bells and songs, into a place where no one is ever hungry or cold, and where every day is new and kind.

Morning came. The city woke to a new year. Early passersby found a little girl sitting in the corner between two houses. She was very still. Her cheeks were rosy, and a gentle smile rested on her face. Around her lay a bundle of burned matches, their ends blackened and curled.

“She must have tried to warm herself,” people said. They shook their heads and hurried on, their footsteps tapping on the bright, icy street. They did not know what she had seen. They did not know how brightly the stove had burned for her, how sweet the roast had smelled, or how many candles had glittered on the tall Christmas tree. They did not know that, in the last great blaze of light, she had been lifted up by her grandmother’s loving hands.

And so the little match girl went into the New Year in a place where there is no winter, where there is only warmth and joy. Though her matches had burned down to ash, her hope had become a star that would never go out.