I make my living selling matches on the street. They burn so prettily, why won’t anyone buy them? I know, because they already have light in their homes, and so much warmth, oh, what warmth! The night is cold, too cold, but I don’t want to go home because my father will beat me, and, besides, the wind howls through the attic roof. There is only one thing to do. I will light my matches, warm myself by my own fire, sit underneath my own, lit-up tree.
The Little Match Girl in The Little Match Girl, Hans Christian Andersen. Illustration by Anne Anderson.