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Mother: Stay away from us. We don’t want to buy matchsticks from you.

Daughter: Oh, Mother! The girl is so dirty. She stinks!

Mother: Keep off! Go away! We don’t want anything from you. (whispering) Wonder why

such people are on the streets among us?
Narrator: The Little Match Girl feels sad. No one has bought any matches from her. It is

extremely cold. In all the windows, lights are shining, and there was a wonderful smell of
roast goose, for it is New Year’s Eve. She tries to sell matches to everyone who passes by,
but no one takes notice of her.

Little Match Girl (sitting down and drawing her little feet under her): I feel so cold.
My hands and feet are so cold. But I dare not go home.
I haven’t earned a cent and Father will

surely beat me up. Her hands were
almost dead with cold. Let me light
up one little match and warm my
fingers.

Narrator: The little girl takes out
one match from the box, rubs it

against the wall and it sputters and
burns. It makes a warm, bright
flame, like a little candle, as she
holds her hands over it. It seems to
her as if she were sitting before a

great iron stove with shining brass
knobs and a brass cover.

Little Match Girl: Oh, what a
wonderful light! What is that over there? It’s a stove! I feel so warm and comfortable now.
My feet and hands feel so warm.

Narrator: The little girl stretches out her feet to warm them too; then the little flame goes
out, the stove vanishes, and she only has the remains of the burnt match in her hand.

Little Match Girl: Oh! It is cold again. Let me light up another match. No, I can’t. I have

to sell them and get money. But, it is very cold. I can’t hold it anymore. Let me light up one
more match.

Narrator: The little girl strikes another match against the wall. It burns brightly, and
when the light falls upon the wall, it becomes transparent like a thin veil, and she could
see through it into a room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spread and on it was laid a
lavish feast.

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