The Steadfast Tin Soldier

There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, all brothers, for they had all been cast from the same old tin spoon. They held their muskets against their shoulders and looked straight ahead, and their uniforms were splendid, red and blue. The very first thing they ever heard in this world, when the lid was lifted from their box, was a little boy crying out, "Tin soldiers!" and clapping his hands, for they were his birthday present. He stood them up on the table at once.

Every soldier looked exactly like the next — all but one. He had been cast last, and there hadn't been quite enough tin to finish him, so he had only one leg. But he stood just as firmly on his one leg as the others did on two, and it was he, of all the twenty-five, who was to have the most remarkable adventure.

On the table stood many other toys, but the finest of all was a little paper castle. Through its tiny windows you could see straight into its rooms, and in front of it, among small trees, lay a bit of mirror made to look like a lake, with wax swans sailing upon it. And there, in the castle's open doorway, stood a little paper lady. She wore a skirt of the finest muslin, with a thin blue ribbon across her shoulders like a scarf, and pinned to it was a bright tinsel rose as big as her whole face. She was a dancer, and she stood with both arms stretched out and one leg lifted so high behind her that the tin soldier couldn't see it at all — so he supposed that she, like him, had only one leg.

"There's a wife for me," he thought. "Though she's very grand, living in a castle, while I only have a box, and twenty-four brothers besides. Still — I should like to know her." And he lay down full length behind a snuffbox on the table, so that he could watch the lovely little dancer, who went on standing on her one leg without ever once losing her balance.

When evening came, the other tin soldiers were put away, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the toys began to play among themselves — visiting, and holding balls, and even waging little wars. The tin soldiers rattled about in their box, wanting to join in, but they couldn't lift the lid. The nutcracker turned somersaults, the pencil scribbled about on the slate, and there was such a commotion that the canary woke and began to talk too, and in verse, if you please. Only two did not move at all: the tin soldier and the little dancer. She stood on the very tip of her toe with her arms spread wide; he stood just as steadfastly on his one leg, and he never took his eyes off her.

Then the clock struck twelve — and snap! the lid of the snuffbox flew open. There was no snuff inside at all, but a little black goblin, for it was a trick box.

"Tin soldier," said the goblin, "keep your eyes to yourself, and don't go looking at what isn't your business!"

The tin soldier pretended not to hear.

"Very well," said the goblin. "Just you wait till tomorrow."

When morning came and the children got up, the soldier was set on the windowsill. And whether it was the goblin's doing, or only a draught, no one could say — but all at once the window blew open, and the tin soldier tumbled out, head over heels, from three floors up. It was a dreadful fall. He landed upside down, his one leg pointing straight up, his bayonet wedged fast between two paving stones.

The maid and the little boy came down at once to look for him, and though they very nearly stepped right on him, they never saw him. If he had called out, "Here I am!" they surely would have found him — but he did not think it proper to shout while he was in uniform.

Then it began to rain, harder and harder, until it was a real downpour. When it passed, two boys came along the street.

"Look — a tin soldier!" said one. "Let's send him sailing."

They folded a boat from a scrap of newspaper, set the soldier inside it, and launched him down the gutter, running alongside and clapping their hands. What waves there were in that gutter, what a current! The paper boat rocked and spun, until the tin soldier trembled — but he stood steadfast still, his musket at his shoulder, his face never changing. Then the boat swept under a long plank bridge, and it grew as dark as it had been inside his box.

"Where am I going now?" he thought. "Yes — this is the goblin's doing. Oh, if only the little dancer were here with me, I shouldn't mind the dark at all."

Just then a great water rat, who lived beneath the bridge, came swimming up.

"Have you a passport?" he demanded. "Hand it over!"

But the tin soldier said nothing, and only held his musket tighter.

The boat sailed on, the rat close behind, gnashing his teeth and calling out to the sticks and straws, "Stop him! Stop him! He hasn't paid his toll! He hasn't shown his passport!" But the current only grew stronger. The soldier could already see daylight ahead where the bridge ended — but he heard, too, a great roaring, loud enough to frighten the bravest heart. For just beyond the bridge, the gutter poured into a wide canal, as dangerous to him as a waterfall would be to us.

There was no stopping now. Out shot the little boat, and the tin soldier held himself as stiff and straight as he could — no one should say he so much as blinked. The boat spun round three or four times, filled to the brim with water, and began to sink. Deeper and deeper it went, the paper crumbling apart, until the water closed over the soldier's head. In that last moment he thought of the pretty dancer he would never see again, and it seemed to him a voice was singing:

Onward, onward, soldier bold, danger waits in dark and cold.

Then the paper gave way entirely, and the tin soldier sank down — but just then, a great fish swallowed him whole.

Oh, how dark it was inside that fish — darker even than under the bridge, and far narrower. But the tin soldier lay steadfast still, his musket upon his shoulder.

The fish thrashed about terribly, then at last grew still. Something flashed through the dark like lightning, daylight came pouring in, and a voice cried, "Why — a tin soldier!" The fish had been caught, brought to market, sold, and carried into a kitchen, where the cook cut it open with her big knife. She lifted the soldier out between two fingers and carried him into the front room, where everyone wanted to see the remarkable little fellow who had traveled about inside a fish. But the tin soldier felt no pride at all.

They stood him on the table — and wonder of wonders, it was the very same room as before! There were the same children, the same toys, the same splendid castle with the little dancer still balanced upon her one leg, her other leg lifted high — steadfast, just as he was. It moved him so that he very nearly wept tin tears, but that would not have been proper. He only looked at her, and she looked at him, and neither said a word.

Then, for no reason at all, one of the little boys picked up the tin soldier and tossed him straight into the stove. It was surely the goblin's doing.

The soldier stood there as the flames rose around him, and felt a terrible heat — though whether it came from the fire, or from something else in his tin heart, he could not have said. His bright colors had all faded away, whether from his long journey or from sorrow, no one could tell. He looked at the little dancer, and she looked at him, and he felt himself beginning to melt — but still he stood steadfast, his musket at his shoulder.

Then a door somewhere flew open, and a draught caught up the little dancer. She fluttered like a small white feather straight into the stove beside the tin soldier, blazed up for one bright moment, and was gone.

The tin soldier melted down at last into a small, shapeless lump. And in the morning, when the maid came to clear out the ashes, she found him there, melted into the shape of a tiny tin heart. Of the little dancer, nothing at all remained — except the tinsel rose, burned black as coal.