The Steadfast Tin Soldier

On a birthday morning, a little boy opened a bright box and found twenty-five tin soldiers. They had been cast from the same old tin spoon, so they all looked exactly alike—straight backs, shiny uniforms, rifles at their shoulders. All except the very last one. There had not been enough tin for him, so he had only one leg. Yet he stood as tall and firm as any of the others.

The boy set the soldiers on a table crowded with other toys. There was a paper castle with tiny windows, a mirror laid down like a lake, and paper swans that seemed to glide. In front of the castle stood a paper ballerina in a white dress. She held out her arms and balanced on one slender leg, the other lifted high behind her. The one-legged soldier could not see the hidden leg for the hem of her skirt, so he thought, She is like me.

He looked at her all day, and when the boy blew out the candles and went to bed, the clock struck midnight and the toys grew lively. The nutcrackers clacked, the lead pencils danced, the paper swans bobbed on the mirror lake, and the ball bounced until it was dizzy. Only the tin soldier stood steadfast, eyes fixed on the ballerina.

From a black jack-in-the-box on the table, a little goblin sprang up with a snap. He had a paint-smeared face and a sharp little voice. “Tin Soldier,” he said, “don’t stare where you shouldn’t. Look away!”

But the tin soldier stood his ground and did not blink.

“Very well,” snarled the goblin, ducking back into his box. “You’ll see what happens.”

In the morning, the boy picked up the one-legged soldier and set him on the windowsill, perhaps just to see how well he could stand. The wind rushed by, and some say it was the goblin’s doing, but the window flew open. The steadfast tin soldier toppled from the third floor. He fell headfirst past the flower pots, past the curtains, down, down, down—clink! He landed bayonet-first between two paving stones, standing straight as ever.

Rain began to fall. Two boys came splashing along. “Look! A tin soldier!” one cried. They folded a paper boat from an old newspaper, set the soldier inside, and launched him into the gutter. Away he sailed in the rushing water.

“What a voyage!” thought the tin soldier. “This is the life for a soldier!” He sat as straight as he could, never mind the bump and slosh of the water.

The gutter widened and grew deeper, and the boat raced into a dark drain under the street. A big rat with whiskers like ropes swam up beside him. “Show your passport!” squeaked the rat. “Show your ticket!”

The tin soldier said nothing. He had no papers, only his courage and his one strong leg. The water roared faster, and the boat sped away, leaving the rat churning and screeching, “Stop him! Stop the thief!”

The tunnel grew darker. The paper boat grew soggy and thin. At last it could hold him no longer. It spun in a whirl, tipped, and folded. The tin soldier fell into the cold black water. In that moment he thought of the paper ballerina, standing as still as a candle flame, and he kept himself as upright as a soldier could.

Then something even bigger than a rat came along—snap! A fish opened its mouth and swallowed him whole. It was black as night inside that fish. The soldier stood steadfast in the strange, sloshing belly, his rifle against his shoulder, his gaze turned inward to the image of the ballerina.

Time passed, and then there was a great flash of light and a loud rattle. The fish had been caught, sold at the market, and brought to a kitchen. The cook slit it open with a sharp knife, and there, shining and wet, lay the one-legged soldier.

“Mercy me!” said the cook. “Here’s the same tin soldier from the little boy’s house!” For it was, though no one could have guessed the route he had taken to return. She wiped him clean and carried him back to the playroom.

The soldier saw everything as it had been—the paper castle, the mirror lake, and the ballerina on her one perfect leg. If he could have smiled, he would have. If the ballerina could have blushed, she might have. They only looked at each other, steady as ever.

Then one of the boys, perhaps the very same who had set him on the windowsill, picked up the soldier. Was it the goblin’s mischief again? Was it just a sudden idea? No one could say. “Let’s see how strong he is,” said the boy, and he opened the stove door and tossed the tin soldier into the fire.

The room glowed red and gold. The heat bit at the soldier’s paint and twisted his shape, but he stood straight, as a soldier must, and kept his gaze on the ballerina. A door opened somewhere, and a gust of air swept across the room. The ballerina trembled, lifted, and floated like a white butterfly. She drifted right into the stove beside him. For an instant she flamed bright as a star. Then she was gone. Only a tiny spangle, the tinsel rosette from her dress, remained.

The little tin soldier felt himself softening. He would have wept if tears could flow from tin, but he stood firm to the very end—steadfast in the fire as he had been in the gutter, the drain, and the fish.

In the morning, when the maid raked out the ashes, she found two small things where the fire had been. One was a delicate spangle, light as a breath. The other was a little lump of tin shaped like a heart.

And that is how the steadfast tin soldier kept faith with himself and with the dancer he loved, no matter where the current carried him.