Hans Christian Andersen
'We seem to be journeying along Death's road to the Garden of Paradise!' said the Prince, but the Eastwind never answered a word, he only pointed before them where a beautiful blue light was shin- ing. The blocks of stone above them grew dimmer and dimmer, and
at last they became as transparent as a white cloud in the moon- shine. The air was also deliciously soft, as fresh as on the mountain- tops and as scented as down among the roses in the valley.
A river ran there as clear as the air itself, and the fish in it were like