The Dreadful Story of Harriet and the Matches

The Dreadful Story of Harriet and the Matches is a short tale about children by the German author Heinrich Hoffmann. The original German title was "Die gar traurige Geschichte mit dem Feuerzeug", a poem collected in the book Der Struwwelpeter in 1845.
The story was used to tell childrens not to be scared by death, but as Bill Bryson says in his book "At Home, a Short history of Private Life", the effect was certainly the opposite.

It almost makes me cry to tell
What foolish Harriet befell.
Mamma and Nurse went out one day
And left her all alone at play.
Now, on the table close at hand,
A box of matches chanced to stand;
And kind Mamma and Nurse had told her,
That, if she touched them, they would scold her.
But Harriet said: "Oh, what a pity!
For, when they burn, it is so pretty;
They crackle so, and spit, and flame:
Mamma, too, often does the same."

The pussy-cats heard this,
And they began to hiss,
And stretch their claws,
And raise their paws;
"Me-ow," they said, "me-ow, me-o,
You'll burn to death, if you do so."

But Harriet would not take advice:
She lit a match, it was so nice!
It crackled so, it burned so clear—
Exactly like the picture here.
She jumped for joy and ran about
And was too pleased to put it out.

The Pussy-cats saw this
And said: "Oh, naughty, naughty Miss!"
And stretched their claws,
And raised their paws:
"'Tis very, very wrong, you know,
Me-ow, me-o, me-ow, me-o,
You will be burnt, if you do so."

And see! oh, what dreadful thing!
The fire has caught her apron-string;
Her apron burns, her arms, her hair—
She burns all over everywhere.

Then how the pussy-cats did mew—
What else, poor pussies, could they do?
They screamed for help, 'twas all in vain!
So then they said: "We'll scream again;
Make haste, make haste, me-ow, me-o,
She'll burn to death; we told her so."

So she was burnt, with all her clothes,
And arms, and hands, and eyes, and nose;
Till she had nothing more to lose
Except her little scarlet shoes;
And nothing else but these was found
Among her ashes on the ground.

And when the good cats sat beside
The smoking ashes, how they cried!
"Me-ow, me-oo, me-ow, me-oo,
What will Mamma and Nursey do?"
Their tears ran down their cheeks so fast,
They made a little pond at last.


La Tristissima Storia degli Zolfanelli is the italian version translated by Gaetano Negri in 1882 with the book Pierino Porcospino


Di sala in sala Paolinetta
Gira e rigira, sola soletta.
Di casa uscendo la sua mammina
Disse: “Ricordati di star buonina”.
Ma se non teme d’esser sgridata
Grida, fa il chiasso quella sventata.

Ecco essa vede sul tavolino
De’ zolfanelli lo scatolino.
“Oh, che grazioso bel giocherello!
Io voglio accender lo zolfanello.
La mamma accenderlo veduto ho spesso,
Io vo’ ripetere quel gioco istesso!”.

E Minz e Maunz, i due gattini
Alzano al cielo i lor zampini.
Gridano: “Il babbo questo non vuole
Più non rammenti le sue parole?
Miao, miao, miao.
Suvvia finiscila con questo gioco
Che c’è pericolo di prender foco!”.

Ai due gattini Paolinetta
Intenta al gioco non può dar retta.
Ecco la fiamma s’accende e brilla,
crepita il legno, scoppia, scintilla.
Tutta contenta la pazzerella
Agita il foco, ride, saltella.

E Minz e Maunz, i due gattini
Gidan: “La mamma questo non vuole,
più non rammenti le sue parole?
Miao, miao, miao.
Suvvia finiscila con questo gioco
Che c’è pericolo di prender foco”.

Ahimè la fiamma la bimba investe
Ardon le treccie, arde la veste.
Corre la misera di loco in loco
Non c’è più scampo, è tutta un fuoco.

E Minz e Maunz inorriditi
Mandano acuti urli infiniti.
Miao, miao, miao,
“Qui, qui venite, venite in fretta,
muore bruciata Paolinetta!”.

Brucia in un soffio, sfuma in un punto
Veste e persona, tutto è consunto.
Un po’ di cenere e due scarpini
Cara memoria dei suoi piedini.
E’ quel che resta! Non c’è più nulla
Di quell’indocile, vispa fanciulla.

E Minz e Maunz, i due gattini
Tergon le lacrime coi lor zampini.
Miao, miao, miao,
“Ahi! babbo e mamma, ahi! dove siete?
Ahi, vostra figlia più non vedrete!”.
Come un ruscello che irriga i prati
Scorron le lagrime dei desolati.



Sources:
Gutemberg.com
Filastrocche.it