My Favorite Han Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales

I was enjoy reading Han Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales. I read them long ago when I was in high school. It’s a compulsory reading book in my school. I remembered some stories: The Emporor’s New Clothes and The Red Shoes. At that time I thought the story of The Emporor’s New Clothes was clever and satirical about flattering in human and I was scared of the story of The Red Shoes. I thought it was cruel that a girl lost her feet as her punishment. It’s pretty scary when she went to the church and the red shoes with her little feet appeared before her.
This time I read a new story, The Naughty Boy. At this moment I might pick it as my favorite story considering my present situation. I put part of the story here
 
Along time ago, there lived an old poet,
‘Those who have not a roof over their heads will be
wetted to the skin,’ said the good old poet.
‘Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold, and I’m so wet!’
exclaimed suddenly a child that stood crying at the door
and knocking for admittance, while the rain poured down,
‘Poor child!’ the old poet let the boy in and dried him.
 
The boy’s eyes were like two bright stars,
his hair waved in beautiful curls. He
looked exactly like a little angel.
He had a nice little bow in his hand,
‘What’s your name?’ said the old man.
‘My name is Cupid,’ answered the boy.
‘Don’t you know me? There lies my bow;
it shoots well, I can assure you!
 
‘Why, your bow is quite spoiled,’ said the old poet.
‘That were sad indeed,’ said the boy, and he took the
bow in his hand -and examined it on every side. ‘Oh, it is
dry again, and is not hurt at all; the string is quite tight. I
will try it directly.’ And he bent his bow, took aim, and
shot an arrow at the old poet, right into his heart. ‘You
see now that my bow was not spoiled,’ said he laughing;
and away he ran.
 
The naughty boy, to shoot the old poet in that way; he
who had taken him into his warm room, who had treated
him so kindly, and who had given him warm wine and
the very best apples!
 
The poor poet lay on the earth and wept, for the arrow
had really flown into his heart.
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