Showing results for "Hans Christian Andersen" in Anthologies & Short Stories

Step into the magic of the season with "The Classic Christmas Collection, Vol. 1" - your ultimate holiday audiobook experience! Unwrap the warmth of nostalgia with this carefully curated treasury of timeless festive masterpieces. Journey from the cozy rhythm of "Twas the Night Before Christmas"...

Hans Christian Andersen was the profoundly imaginative writer and storyteller who revolutionized literature for children. He gave us the now standard versions of some traditional fairy tales—with an anarchic twist—but many of his most famous tales sprang directly from his imagination. The...

Este Audiolibro recoge los siguientes cuentos clásicos: ”El guadavías“ de Charles Dickens “El patito feo” y “La sirenita” de Hans Christian Andersen “La bella durmiente”, “Piel de asno” y “La cenicienta” de Charles Perrault.

Disfruta con tus hijos de una selección de los mejores cuentos clásicos infantiles de 5 minutos de todos los tiempos. Por primera vez Booka produce estos magníficos audiolibros con una de las mejores actrices del doblaje en español y con música original. Te lo imaginas?. No te decepcionará. Diviértete con estos cuentos cortos de 5 minutos en los que encontrarás: Hansel y Gretel, Blancanieves,La Caperucita Roja, El Flautista de Hamelín, El soldadito de plomo...y muchos más.

The Ultimate Classics Collection: Volume One is a continent-hopping, century-spanning collection of 15 essential classic novels by British, American, and Russian authors, read by a cast of incredible narrators including Stephen Fry, Jason Isaacs, Adjoa Andoh, David Rintoul, and many more.

The Bell is one of Hans Christian Andersen’s most profound and contemplative tales: a spiritual allegory about longing, humility, and the courage to seek truth beyond appearances. Moving from crowded streets to silent woods, from social rank to shared humanity, the story unfolds as a quiet pilgrimage—where revelation comes not through explanation or authority, but through perseverance and openness of heart.

In Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind, Hans Christian Andersen offers one of his most mature and quietly devastating tales—a reflective allegory about love, art, and the cost of mistaking appearance for substance.

Brought to you by Penguin. This Penguin Classic is performed by Sid Sagar. This definitive recording includes an introduction by John Brockington and Mary Brockington. Warrior-prince Rama is about to be crowned Young King, when he hears the devastating news that his father, King of Ayodhya, has...

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I have plenty of light: my room is high up in the house, and there is a good prospect over the roofs of the opposite houses. During the first few days I lived in the town, I felt very lonely and low-spirited. Instead of the forest and the green hills of the country, I had nothing but black chimney-pots on the horizon of my view. And then I had not a single friend, nor one familiar face to greet me.

Hans Christian Andersen’s The Old House tells the story of a dilapidated, centuries-old house in a street of modern homes. A curious boy befriends the lonely old man who lives there and explores the house, filled with relics and memories of the past. The house and its contents, including a lost tin soldier, are eventually sold and the house is demolished, yet its history and the friendship it fostered endure as memories in the boy’s mind, represented by the rediscovery of the tin soldier years later.

The country around the town of Kjöge is very bare. The town itself lies by the seashore, which is always beautiful, although it might be more beautiful than it is, because all around are flat fields, and a forest a long way off. But one always finds something beautiful in the spot that is one's own home, something for which one longs, even when one is in the most wonderful spot in the world.

Es war so schön draußen auf dem Land, es war Sommer – die Weizenfelder waren golden, der Hafer war grün, und unten zwischen den grünen Wiesen stand das Heu aufgestapelt. Dort schritt der Storch auf seinen roten Beinen umher und klapperte auf Ägyptisch, was die Sprache war, die seine Mutter ihn gelehrt hatte. Rund um die Felder und Wiesenländer erhoben sich riesige Wälder, in denen verborgene tiefe Seen lagen. Ja, es war in der Tat wunderschön dort draußen auf dem Land.

There was once a young man who studied to become a poet. He wanted to be a poet by next Easter, so that he could marry and earn his living from poetry, which he knew was just a matter of making things up. But he had no imagination. He firmly believed he had been born too late. Every subject had been used up before he had a chance at it, and there was nothing in the world left to write about.

A couple of large ships were sent up toward the North Pole to discover the boundaries of land and sea and how far it would be possible for the human race to penetrate in that direction.

There is an old fairy tale: "The Thorny Road of Honor was trodden by a marksman named Bryde, to whom came great honor and dignity, but not until after manifold adversities and peril of life." More than one of us had heard that tale in childhood, and perhaps read it in later years, and thought of his own unsung "thorny road" and "manifold adversities." Romance and reality are very nearly alike, but romance has its harmonious ending here on earth, while reality more often delays it and leads us to time and eternity.

There came a soldier marching down the high road-one, two! one, two! He had his knapsack on his back and his sword at his side as he came home from the wars. On the road he met a witch, an ugly old witch, a witch whose lower lip dangled right down on her chest.

Poor John was greatly troubled, because his father was very ill and could not recover. Except for these two, there was no one in their small room. The lamp on the table had almost burned out, for it was quite late at night.

A mother sat by her little child. She was so sad, so afraid he would die. The child's face was pallid. His little eyes were shut. His breath came faintly now, and then heavily as if he were sighing, and the mother looked more sadly at the dear little soul.

Once upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good old poets. One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm going on outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat comfortably in his chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and the apples were roasting.

There is nobody in the world who knows so many stories as Ole-Luk-Oie, or who can relate them so nicely. In the evening, while the children are seated at the table or in their little chairs, he comes up the stairs very softly, for he walks in his socks, then he opens the doors without the slightest noise, and throws a small quantity of very fine dust in their eyes, just enough to prevent them from keeping them open, and so they do not see him.