The flowers which had been here in the dark troublous time had been much more beautiful.But they had been cut off，one after another，to be woven into wreaths and placed in coffins，and the flag had waved over them！Perhaps the Story had been buried with the flowers.But then the flowers would have known of it，and the coffin would have heard it，and every little blade of grass that shot forth would have told of it.The Story never dies.
艰难的时代里长出的花儿，总是十分美丽的。不过它们统统被砍掉，编成花圈，放进棺材里，上面又盖上国旗！也许童话就跟这些花儿一起被埋葬掉了。如果是这样的话，花儿就应知道，棺材也应知道，泥土也应知道，从土里长出的每根草也应该能说出什么道理来了。童话是从来不会死的。
Perhaps it has been here once，and has knocked.But who had eyes or ears for it in those times？People looked darkly，gloomily，and almost angrily at the sunshine of spring，at the twittering birds，and all the cheerful green.The tongue could not even bear the old merry，popular songs，and they were laid in the coffin with so much that our heart held dear.The Story may have knocked without obtaining a hearing.There was none to bid it welcome，and so it may have gone away.
可能它曾到这儿来过一次，敲过门——不过那时候谁会听见和想到它呢？人们带着阴郁、沉重、几乎气愤的神气来望着春天的太阳，快活的歌唱的鸟儿和一切愉快的绿东西。他们连那些古老的、快乐的民间歌曲都不唱：它们和我们最心爱的东西一起被埋在棺材里。童话尽可以来敲门，没人会听见的。没有人欢迎它，所以它就走了。
“I will go forth and seek it.Out in the country！Out in the wood！and on the open sea beach！”
“我要去寻到它！到乡下去找它！到树林中去找它！到宽阔的海滩上去找它！”
Out in the country lies an old manor house，with red walls，pointed gables，and a red flag that floats on the tower.The nightingale sings among the finelyfringed beechleaves，looking at the blooming apple trees of the garden，and thinking that they bear roses.Here the bees are mightily busy in the summertime，and hover round their queen with their humming song.The autumn has much to tell of the wild chase，of the leaves of the trees，and of the races of men that are passing away together.The wild swans sing at Christmastime on the open water，while in the old hall the guests by the fireside gladly listen to songs and to old legends(legend n.传说，伟人传，图例)。
乡间有一个古老的庄园。它有红色的墙和尖尖的山形墙，塔顶上还飘扬着一面红旗。夜莺在叶子很细的山毛榉叶子间婉转地歌唱，看着花园里盛开的苹果树，还以为它们开的就是玫瑰花哪。在夏天的太阳光里，蜜蜂在这儿忙碌着，绕着它们的皇后嗡嗡地吟唱。秋天的风暴会说出许多关于野猎的故事，关于树林的落叶和过去的人类的故事。在圣诞节时，野天鹅在一片宁静的水面上唱着歌；而在那个古老的花园里，人们坐在炉边倾听歌声与远古的传说。
Down into the old part of the garden，where the great avenue of wild chestnut trees lures the wanderer to tread its shades，went the man who was in search of the Story.For here the wind had once murmured something to him of“Waldemar Daa and his Daughters”。The Dryad in the tree，who was the Storymother herself，had here told him the“Dream of the Old Oak Tree”。Here，in the time of the ancestral mother，had stood clipped hedges，but now only ferns and stinging nettles grew there，hiding the scattered fragments of old sculptured figures.The moss is growing in their eyes，but they can see as well as ever，which was more than the man could do who was in search of the Story，for he could not find that.Where could it be？
在花园一个古老的角落里，有一条大路生满了野栗树，引诱着人们向它的树阴里走去。这人便走进去寻找童话，风儿曾经在这儿低声地对他说过“一个贵族和他的女儿们”的故事。树精——正是童话妈妈本人——曾在这儿同他讲述过“老槲树的梦”。当祖母活着时，这儿有修剪得很整齐的篱笆：可是现在这儿只剩凤尾草和荨麻——它们将遗弃在那儿的残破的古代石像都遮蔽住了。这些石像的眼睛里长出了青苔，但它们仍能像以前一样看得见东西——而来寻找童话的人却看不见，因为他找不到童话。童话到底到哪儿去了呢？
The crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees，and screamed，“Krah！Da！—Krah！Da！”
千百只乌鸦在他的头上飞，在一些古老的树上盘旋，同时叫道：“它就在那里！它就在那里！”
And he went out of the garden and over the grassplot of the yard，into the alder grove.There stood a little sixsided house，with a poultryyard and a duckyard.In the middle of the room sat the old woman who had the management of the whole，and who knew accurately about every egg that was laid，and about every chicken that could creep out of an egg.But she was not the Story of which the man was in search.That she could attest with a Christian certificate(certificate n.证书，证明书vt.发给证明书，以证书形式授权给……)of baptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer.
他走出花园，走出花园外的护墙河，来到赤杨树林里面去。这儿有一个六角形的小屋子，还捎带有一个养鸡场和养鸭场。在屋子的正当间儿坐着一个老太婆。她管理这儿的一切事情：生下的每一个蛋，从蛋里爬出的每一只小鸡，她都知道得清清楚楚。不过她并不是这人所要找的那个童话：这一点她可以拿出都放在抽屉里那张受过洗礼的证书与那张种过天花的证书来作证。
Without，not far from the house，is a hill covered with redthorn and broom.Here lies an old gravestone，which was brought here many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial town，a remembrance of one of the most honored councillors(councillor n.议员，评议员)of the place.His wife and his five daughters，all with folded hands and stiff ruffs，stand round him.One could look at them so long，that it had an effect upon the thoughts，and these reacted upon the stones，as if they were telling of old times.At least it had been so with the man who was in search of the Story.
在离屋子不远的外面，有一个土丘，上头长满了红山楂和金链花。这儿躺着一块古老的石墓碑。它是很多年前从一个乡下市镇的教堂墓地里搬来的：它是城里一个挺有名气的参议员的纪念碑。他的太太同五个女儿，全都拢着双手，穿着绉领，在他的石像周围站着。人们可以把他们研究极久，一直观察到让它在思想上产生作用，同时思想又在石像上发生反作用，让它能讲出关于远古时代的事情——那个找童话的人最低限度有这种想法。
As he came nearer，he noticed a living butterfly sitting on the forehead of the sculptured councillor.The butterfly flapped its wings，and flew a little bit farther，and then returned fatigued to sit upon the gravestone，as if to point out what grew there.Fourleaved shamrocks grew there；there were seven specimens(specimen n.范例，标本，样品，样本，待试验物)close to each other.When fortune comes，it comes in a heap.He plucked the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.）
来到这儿时，他发现一只活蝴蝶停在这位石雕的参议员的额角上。蝴蝶拍着翅膀，往前飞了一会儿，然后又落到墓石的近旁，像是要把这儿生长着的东西都一一指点出来似的。这儿长着有四片叶子的苜蓿：总共有七棵，排成一行。幸运的事情总不是独自到来的。他摘下苜蓿叶子，装进衣袋里。
“Fortune is as good as red gold，but a new charming story would be better still.”thought the man.But he could not find it here.
这人想：幸运跟纯金一样好，但是美妙的新童话比那个还要好。但是他在这儿没有找到童话。
And the sun went down，round and large.The meadow was covered with vapor.The moorwoman was at her brewing.
太阳，又红又大的太阳，缓缓落下去了，草地里升起了烟雾，沼泽女人正在酿酒。