Read Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland, translated from the Swedish by Jill Morgan for Free Online Page A

poplars at home in my father the King’s Garden of Roses.
    We came to the Bridge of Morninglight, but I hardly recognized it. It looked quite different, as if it were made of silver rays.
    â€œIt has another name at night,” said Pompoo as we rode up onto the bridge.
    â€œWhat is it called at night?” I asked.
    â€œThe Bridge of Moonlight,” he answered.

    We rode over the Bridge of Moonlight that would soon be drawn up by the guards and far away we saw the shepherds’ fires on Greenfields Island which looked like small lamps. The whole world was completely, completely silent and the only sound was the thunder of hooves against the bridge. Miramis almost looked like a phantom horse in the moonlight and his mane was no longer a golden mane but a silver mane.
    I thought about the Well That Whispers at Night and of all the stories I had heard. There was a special one I liked. It started like this: “Once upon a time there was a king’s son riding in the moonlight. . . .”
    Just imagine, that could’ve been me! After all, I was a King’s son.
    We came closer and closer to Greenfields Island, and Miramis’s hooves thundered on. The whole time I thought of the fairy tale and how beautiful it was: “Once upon a time there was a king’s son riding in the moonlight. . . .”

He Rode Through the Forest of Moonbeams
    W HEN I LIVED with Uncle Olaf and Aunt Hulda I used to borrow books of fairy tales from the library. Aunt Hulda didn’t like it much.
    â€œYou’ve got your nose in a book again,” she’d say. “That’s why you’re small and pitiful and frail—because you won’t go out with the other children.”
    Of course I went out—I was almost always out. Aunt Hulda and Uncle Olaf preferred that I would never come in. Surely they’re glad now, I think. Now that I’ll never come in any more.
    It was only in the evening that I tried to read a little, and that couldn’t be the reason I was so frail. Aunt Hulda should see how big and strong and healthy I am now. I could beat Johnny with one hand tied behind my back if I were back home now on North Street. But I wouldn’t do that, because I don’t want to.
    I wonder what Aunt Hulda would say if she heard about the Well That Whispers at Night. If she found out that you don’t have to sit with your nose in a book to read fairy tales, but that you can stay out in the fresh air and still hear as many stories as you want. Maybe Aunt Hulda would think it was fine, even though she was never satisfied with anything.
    Yes, if she only knew that in Farawayland there’s a well that whispers fairy tales.
    â€œOnce upon a time there was a king’s son riding in the moonlight. He rode through the Forest of Moonbeams. . . .”
    That’s what the well had said. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It seemed as if the well had meant something special by that story. That I was the king’s son who had once ridden through the Forest of Moonbeams, and that I must do it again. The well had spoken and sung to me for the whole evening just to remind me of what I must do.
    I asked my father the King if he knew where the Forest of Moonbeams was.
    â€œThe Forest of Moonbeams is in the Land Beyond the Mountains,” he said, and his voice sounded melancholy. “Why do you want to know, Mio, my son?”
    â€œTonight I want to ride there when the moon is shining,” I said.
    My father the King looked at me intently. “Oh, so soon?” he sighed, and his voice sounded even more melancholy.
    â€œMaybe you don’t want me to,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be worried that I’m out riding in the Forest of the Moonbeams at night.”
    My father the King shook his head. “No, why should I be?” he said. “A forest sleeping peacefully in the moonlight isn’t dangerous.”
    He sat silently after