We children always called our mother's aunt “Aunty”； we had no other name for her.

She gave us jam and sweets， although they were very injurious to our teeth； but the dear children were her weakness， she said. It was cruel to deny them a few sweets， when they were so fond of them. And that's why we loved Aunty so much.

She was an old maid； as far back as I can remember， she was always old. Her age never seemed to change.

In earlier years she had suffered a great deal from toothache， and she always spoke¹ about it； and so it happened that her friend， the brewer² Rasmussen， who was a great wit， called her Aunty Toothache.

He had retired³ from the brewing⁴ business some years before and was then living on the interest of his money. He frequently visited Aunty； he was older than she. He had no teeth at all - only a few black stumps⁵. When a child， he had eaten too much sugar， he told us children， and that's how he came to look as he did.

Aunty could surely never have eaten sugar in her childhood， for she had the most beautiful white teeth. She took great care of them， and she did not sleep with them at night！ - said Rasmussen the brewer. We children knew that this was said in malice， but Aunty said he did not mean anything by it.

One morning， at the breakfast table， she told us of a terrible dream she had had during the night， in which one of her teeth had fallen out.

“That means，” she said， “that I shall lose a true friend！”

“Was it a false tooth？” asked the brewer with a chuckle⁷. “If so， it can only mean that you will lose a false friend！”

“You are an insolent⁸ old man！” said Aunty， angrier than I had seen her before or ever have since.

She later told us that her old friend had only been teasing her； he was the finest man on earth， and when he died he would become one of God's little angels in heaven.

I thought a good deal of this transformation， and wondered if I would be able to recognize him in this new character.

When Aunty and he had been young， he had proposed to her. She had settled down to think it over， had thought too long， and had become an old maid， but always remained his true friend.

And then Brewer Rasmussen died. He was taken to his grave in the most expensive hearse and was followed by a great number of folks， including people with orders and in uniform.

Aunty stood dressed in mourning by the window， together with all of us children， except our little brother， whom the stork¹⁰ had brought a week before. When the hearse and the procession had passed and the street was empty， Aunty wanted to go away from the window， but I did not want to； I was waiting for the angel， Rasmussen the brewer； surely he had by now become one of God's bewinged little children and would appear.

“Aunty，” I said， “don't you think that he will come now？ Or that when the stork again brings us a little brother， he'll then bring us the angel Rasmussen？”

Aunty was quite overwhelmed by my imagination， and said， “That child will become a great poet！” And this she kept repeating all the time I went to school， and even after my confirmation¹¹ and， yes， still does now that I am a student.

She was， and is， to me the most sympathetic of friends， both in my poetical¹² troubles and dental troubles， for I have attacks of both.

“Just write down all your thoughts，” she said， “and put them in the table drawer！ That's what Jean Paul did； he became a great poet， though I don't admire him； he does not excite one. You must be exciting！ Yes， you will be exciting！”

The night after she said this， I lay awake， full of longings¹³ and anguish， with anxiety and fond hopes to become the great poet that Aunty saw and perceived in me； I went through all the pains of a poet！ But there is an even greater pain - toothache - and it was grinding and crushing me； I became a writhing¹⁵ worm， with a bag of herbs and a mustard plaster.

“I know all about it， ” said Aunty. There was a sorrowful smile on her lips， and her white teeth glistened¹⁶.

But I must begin a new chapter in my own and my aunt's story.