The Little Match Girl: Hans Christian Andersen

The Story of The Little Match Girl

Snow on the Last Night of the Year

The sky hung low and gray and the wind bit hard. Streetlamps made small halos in the snowfall. Boots crunched. Carriages rattled. Everyone hurried as if the cold were chasing them. 

A little girl walked alone.

A little girl walked alone. She was small and thin and her shoulders shook with the cold. She had no hat and no shoes. Snow gathered in her pale curls and melted along her neck. Her bare feet looked red, then bluish, then red again as feeling came and went.

She had started the morning in her mother’s slippers, but they were much too large and slipped at every step. At a crossing she slipped when two carriages clattered past. One slipper vanished beneath the wheels and never came back. The other landed near the curb and a boy snatched it and ran away laughing.

The girl did not chase him. She could hardly feel her toes. She kept walking instead, clutching her apron.

In the apron she carried boxes of matches. In her fist she held a neat bundle of matches tied with string. She had been out since morning and nobody had bought a single match.

Soon evening came and New Year’s Eve arrived. The streets felt loud with footsteps but no one looked her way.

Lights Behind Glass

Windows shone like warm squares cut into the dark. Families gathered around the tables. A dog slept by a hearth. A child held a mug with both hands.

The little match girl smelled supper. Roast goose drifted through the air, rich and sweet. The smell made her empty stomach pinch.

She tried to speak up. “Matches for a penny,” she said, then tried again.

Still no one stopped. A man brushed past, eyes on his door. A woman tugged a child along, looking straight ahead. Even when the girl stepped closer to the edge of the sidewalk, the city moved around her like water around a stone.

Near a bakery door, warm air rushed out whenever someone went in or out. The girl edged closer and held out a matchbox. “Sir?”

The man did not even glance down.

Her fingers had turned stiff, like little sticks. If she went home without money, her father would be furious. Besides, home was cold too. The roof let wind through cracks, even with straw and rags stuffed in the holes.

The girl swallowed her fear and walked on.

A Doorway Full of Music

At the next corner, a tall house glowed with light. Evergreen branches circled the door and a ribbon hung in a bright loop. Through the window the girl saw a table with candles and a bowl of oranges that looked like tiny suns.

Someone opened the door and warm laughter spilled out. A girl about the same age stepped into the doorway with mittens on a string and rosy cheeks from heat. She carried a small cake on a plate.

The little match girl took one careful step closer. “Matches,” she said. “Just one box.”

The mittened girl paused. Worry flickered across her face.

An older man in a fine coat appeared behind her. He glanced at the barefoot girl and frowned as if he had seen a shadow. He guided the mittened girl back inside.

“Come in,” he said. “The cold will ruin your cake.”

The door shut. Music played again, a lively tune that made the girl’s feet want to tap even though they hurt. She stood there for a moment, listening, then turned away.

She could not stand in front of that door any longer. The warm light inside made the cold bite even harder, so she turned into a narrow street where two houses leaned toward each other. She huddled in the corner between them where the wind could not reach her as easily.

Finally, she slid down into it and hugged her knees to her chest.

Snow crept in anyway, her hands shivered so hard that the matches shook softly in her apron.

One match could warm her fingers. Just one spark. She hesitated because matches meant money and money meant less trouble. Still her hands hurt so badly that thinking felt slow.

At last she pulled out a match.

The First Match and the Warm Stove

She struck it against the wall.

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

A small bright flame flickered to life like a tiny candle. She cupped her hands around it and leaned close. Warmth touched her skin, not much, yet enough to make her sigh.

As she watched, the flame seemed to steady and widen. The cold corner faded and a large iron stove appeared, glossy and black with brass feet that shone.

“Oh,” she breathed.

She stretched her feet toward it and imagined the ache melting away. She held her palms out and felt almost safe.

Then the flame trembled and died and the stove vanished like a dream.

She blinked. Cold brick stood in front of her again. In her fingers she held a burned out match stick.

The wind pushed snow into her lap.

She should stop, she told herself. She should save the rest for selling. Yet the cold returned so fast that it stole her breath.

She took out another match.

A Feast That Comes Closer

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

As the match burned, the brick wall seemed to fade. The girl gasped because she could suddenly see into a bright room on the other side.

A table stood there with a cloth as white as snow. Plates gleamed. Candles flickered. Steam rose from food in happy curls. A family sat close together passing bowls full of food around.

In the middle sat a roast goose, golden and plump, stuffed with apples and dried fruit. The smell seemed to push right through the wall. Her mouth watered.

Then the goose wiggled. It hopped down from its dish and waddled across the floor. Step by step it came toward the wall, toward the girl, as if it were coming straight to her.

She lifted her hand, half laughing, half crying. “Come,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

The goose drew near enough that she could almost touch the warm air around it.

The match flickered and the room dimmed. The goose froze mid-step and Darkness snapped back.

As the Cold bricks returned, the smell vanished and Her hand hung in the air, empty again.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed and looked at the match stub.

Somewhere a bell rang as the city kept celebrating.

She struck another match because for a heartbeat, hope hurt less than hunger.

Candles Like a Sky Full of Stars

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

Now she sat close to a Christmas tree so tall it seemed to touch the sky. Green branches spread wide, heavy with ornaments. Candles blazed across them, hundreds and hundreds, more light than she could count.

The flame on her match began to shrink and the tree faded into the dark. The candles floated upward, higher and higher, until they turned into bright points above her head like stars shining in the night.

One star slipped across the dark and left a bright trail.

The girl remembered her grandmother’s words from long ago. Grandmother had sat by a tiny fire and told stories that made her forget her hunger for a while. “When a star falls,” she had said, “a soul rises to God.”

“Someone is going,” the girl whispered. She did not know why the thought felt like both sadness and comfort.

The match went out.

The corner turned black again. Snow hissed against the bricks. The girl hugged her knees and tried to hold onto the memory of her grandmother’s voice.

Then she struck another match fast, afraid that the warmth might disappear.

Grandmother in the Glow

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

A soft shinning light filled the corner like sunrise. In it stood her grandmother, clear and bright.

Not the weary grandmother from her last winter, but the one from happier times. Her eyes sparkled. Her hands looked strong. Her smile held the same calm that had once made her feel so safe.

“Grandmother!” the girl cried.

Her grandmother opened her arms. “Little one,” she said. The words wrapped around her like a warm blanket, making her feel safe for the first time all night.

The girl’s voice broke. “Please take me with you. Don’t leave when the match goes out. Don’t vanish like the stove and the goose and the tree.”

Her grandmother stepped closer. “I will never leave you,” she promised

The girl clutched the bundle of matches. She did not think about selling anymore. She only thought how happy she was with her Grandmother

So she lit match after match.

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

Scratch. Spit. Flare.

The little corner blazed bright as day. Snow sparkled like sugar. The grandmother looked taller and kinder in the light. She lifted the little girl into her arms as if she weighed nothing.

The girl rested her face against her grandmother’s shoulder. She remembered the scent of soap and dried herbs on Grandmother’s shawl. She remembered how Grandmother once split a crust of bread and pressed the larger piece into the girl’s hand.

Now the girl stopped shaking.

“Where are we going?” she whispered.

“Somewhere warm,” her grandmother replied. “Somewhere there is no hunger and no fear.”

The light rose around them, soft as a warm wind. The girl felt herself float. The cold loosened its grip and the ache in her feet drifted away.

Morning on the Quiet Street

The next morning, New Year’s Day arrived with a pale golden sun. Snow glittered on rooftops and smoke curled from chimneys as families welcomed the New year.

Two neighbors turned into the narrow street and noticed something small in the corner between the houses. They stopped.

A little girl sat there with her knees drawn up and her eyes closed, as if she had fallen asleep waiting for someone. Her face was frozen from the cold and her mouth curved in a tiny smile. Next to her lay burned matchsticks.

Soon people gathered around, a woman took off her scarf and wrapped it around the girl’s shoulders even though it was too late to warm her.

“She tried to warm herself,” someone said looking down at the pile of burnt matchsticks.

“I saw her last night,” one man admitted. “She asked me to buy matches and I kept walking.”

Later that morning, the same man returned to the street with a small bag of coins and a loaf of bread. It was too late to help the little girl but he soon found another child shivering near the market steps. He bought every match in the child’s basket and gave her bread to eat.

The city still glittered with holiday lights, but in that narrow street, a few people finally looked around and chose to act.

History of The Little Match Girl

Hans Christian Andersen first published The Little Match Girl in 1845. Unlike some stories that were adapted from much older folk material, this one is generally treated as Andersen’s own literary fairy tale.

It is one of his bleakest and most famous stories. Rather than offering simple comfort, the story forces readers to look directly at poverty, loneliness and the way society can fail vulnerable children. That is one reason it has lasted. It is not sentimental in the easy sense. It is sharp, painful and morally demanding.

The story also reflects a wider 19th-century concern with poverty in growing cities. Andersen does not solve that problem in the story. Instead, he makes readers feel the cost of ignoring it.

For a factual background read on Andersen, see Hans Christian Andersen at Encyclopaedia Britannica.