It was terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was nearly dark — the last evening of the year. Through that cold and that darkness a poor little girl walked along the street, with nothing on her head and nothing on her feet.

She had been wearing slippers when she left home, it is true. But what good were they? They were enormous slippers, worn before her by her mother; so large that the poor little thing lost them as she scurried across the street, because of two carriages that came rolling by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found. The other was snatched up by a boy who ran off with it, saying it would make a fine cradle when he had children of his own one day. So the little girl walked on with her bare feet, red and blue with cold. She carried a great many matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything from her all day long; nobody had given her a single coin.

She crept along, shivering with cold and hunger, and she was a sorry sight to see.

Snowflakes settled on her long fair hair, which fell in pretty curls about her neck; but she never once thought of that. Candles were shining from every window, and there was a delicious smell of roast goose in the air, for it was New Year's Eve. That she did think of.

In a corner made by two houses, where one stood out further than the other, she sat down and huddled up small. She drew her little feet in close, but she only grew colder and colder. She did not dare go home, for she had sold no matches and had not one coin to bring back: from her father she would certainly get blows. And home was cold too. There was nothing above them but the roof, and the wind whistled through it, even though the biggest cracks had been stopped up with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost numb with cold. Oh, a single match would do her so much good, if only she dared pull one from the bundle, strike it against the wall, and warm her fingers. She drew one out. It flared and burned with a warm, bright flame, like a candle, and she held her hands above it. It was a wonderful light.

It seemed to the little girl that she was truly sitting in front of a great iron stove, with shining brass feet and a brass ornament on top. The fire burned so kindly; it warmed so well. She was already stretching out her feet to warm those too, when the little flame went out: the stove vanished, and she was left with the stub of a burnt match in her hand.

She struck another against the wall. It burned brightly, and where the light fell, the wall became clear as a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table lay a cloth as white as snow, and on the cloth a splendid china service; and the roast goose was steaming there, stuffed with apples and dried plums. Most astonishing of all, the goose hopped down from the dish and came waddling across the floor, with the carving knife and fork still in its breast, right up to the poor little girl. Then the match went out, and there was nothing left but the thick, cold, damp wall.

She lit another one. And now she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree anyone could imagine: larger and more decorated even than the one she had seen through the glass door of the rich merchant's house.

Thousands of little lights burned on the green branches, and coloured pictures, like the ones in the shop windows, looked down at her. The little girl stretched out her hands towards them, and at that moment the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, and she saw them now as stars in the sky. One of them fell and drew a long trail of fire behind it.

— Someone has just died — said the little girl.

For her grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now gone, had told her that when a star falls, a soul is going up to God.

She struck another match against the wall. Again there was light, and in the middle of that brightness stood the old grandmother, so shining and radiant, so gentle, with such love in her face.

— Grandmother! — cried the little one. — Oh, take me with you. You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the roast goose, and like the beautiful Christmas tree.

And she struck the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, because she wanted to be sure of keeping her grandmother there. The matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than noon. Never before had the grandmother looked so beautiful or so tall. She took the little girl in her arms, and the two of them flew together, in brightness and in gladness, so high, so very high; and up there was no cold, and no hunger, and no fear, for they were with God.

But in the corner, in the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl with rosy cheeks and a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall — frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and still she sat there with her matches, one bundle burnt right through.

— She wanted to warm herself — people said.

Nobody had the least idea of the beautiful things she had seen; nobody so much as dreamed of the splendor in which, together with her grandmother, she had entered upon the joy of the new year.