Tomorrow I head south to Story City, Iowa for their annual Scandinavian festival, and on Sunday I’ll be at Danish Day at the Danish American Center in Minneapolis. So I won’t be posting tomorrow. I’m sure Phil will have wonderful things to share, which will ease your keen sense of loss.

Speaking of Denmark, I thought it would be nice to share a few excerpts from J. R. Browne’s report on his meeting with Hans Christian Andersen (I spelled it wrong last time), in his book The Land of Thor, which I reviewed yesterday.

Presently I heard a rapid step and the door was thrown open. Before me stood a tall, thin, shambling, raw-boned figure of a man a little beyond the prime of life, but not yet old, with a pair of dancing gray eyes and a hatchet-face, all alive with twists, and wrinkles, and muscles; a long, lean face, upon which stood out prominently a great nose, diverted by a freak of nature a little to one side, and flanked by a tremendous pair of cheek-bones, with great hollows underneath. Innumerable ridges and furrows swept semicircularly downward around the corners of a great mouth—a broad, deep, rugged fissure across the face, that might have been mistaken for the dreadful child-trap of an ogre but for the sunny beams of benevolence that lurked around the lips, and the genial humanity that glimmered from every nook and turn… a long, bony pair of arms, with long hands on them, a long, lank body, with a long black coat on it; a long, loose pair of legs, with long boots on the feet, all in motion at the same time—all shining, and wriggling and working with an indescribable vitality, a voice bubbling up from the vast depths below with cheery, spasmodic, and unintelligible words of welcome—this was the wonderful man that stood before me…. I would have picked him out from among a thousand men at first glance as a candidate for Congress, or the proprietor of a tavern, if I had met him any where in the United States….

“Come in! come in!” he said, in a gush of broken English; “come in and sit down. You are very welcome. Thank you—thank you very much. I am very glad to see you. It is a rare thing to meet a traveler all the way from California—quite a surprise. Sit down! Thank you!”

And then followed a variety of friendly compliments and remarks about the Americans. He liked them; he was sorry they were so unfortunate as to be engaged in a civil war, but hoped it would soon be over. Did I speak French? He asked, after a pause. Not very well. Or German? Still worse, was my answer. “What a pity!” he exclaimed; “it must trouble you to understand my English, I speak it so badly. It is only within a few years that I have learned to speak it at all.” Of course I complimented him upon his English, which was really better than I had been led to expect. “Can you understand it?” he asked, looking earnestly in my face. “Certainly,” I answered, “almost every word.” “Oh, thank you—thank you. You are very good,” he cried, grasping me by the hand. “I am very much obliged to you for understanding me.” I naturally thanked him for being obliged to me, and we shook hands cordially, and mutually thanked one another over again for being so amiable….

“Dear! dear! And you are going to Iceland!” he continued. “A long way from California! I would like to visit America, but it is very dangerous to travel by sea. A vessel was burned up not long since, and many of my friends were lost. It was a dreadful affair.”

…Talking of likenesses reminded me of a photograph which I had purchased a few days before, and to which I now asked the addition of an autograph.

“Oh, you have a libel on me here!” cried the poet, laughing joyously—“a very bad likeness. Wait! I have several much better; here they are—˝ And he rushed into the next room, tumbled over a lot of papers, and ransacked a number of drawers till he found the desired package—“here’s a dozen of them; take your choice; help yourself—as many as you please!” While looking over the collection I said the likeness of one who had done so much to promote the happiness of some little friends I had at home would be valued beyond measure; that I knew at least half a dozen youngsters who were as well acquainted with the “Little Match Girl,” and the “Ugly Duck,” and the “Poor Idiot Boy,” as he was himself, and his name was as familiar in California as it was in Denmark. At this he grasped both my hands, and looking straight in my face with a kind of ecstatic expression, said, “Oh, is it possible? Do they really read my books in California? so far away? Oh! I thank you very much. Some of my stories, I am aware, have been published in New York, but I did not think they had found their way to the Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thank you! thank you…”