The Sandman

The story

He is the one who comes last. Every other keeper visits on a particular night of the year; the Sandman comes every single one, which is why he is the most tired and by far the best traveled. He is described as tall, unhurried, and made largely of the color the sky goes about ten minutes after sunset. He carries a satchel and he is very careful about which dream goes to which window.

Where it actually comes from

The sand-bringer is old northern European folklore, but his modern form comes from literature. Hans Christian Andersen’s Ole Lukøje — “Ole Shut-Eye” — of 1841 is the gentle version most families know: he sprinkles children’s eyes with sweet milk and opens umbrellas over them, a decorated one for good children’s dreams and a plain one for dreamless sleep. E. T. A. Hoffmann’s 1816 story Der Sandmann is the other tradition entirely, and is genuinely frightening — it is where the nightmarish version comes from. The homely explanation is simple: “sleep” in the corner of the eye really does look like sand.

What it does for a child

Bedtime resistance and fear of the dark are near-universal between three and seven, and they respond far better to a story that gives the child a companion than to reassurance that there is nothing to fear — which a frightened child hears as a denial of what they are feeling. A letter that says the dark is simply the same room, from someone who works in it, meets the fear on its own terms. It also gives an anxious child something concrete to reach for at two in the morning when nobody is awake to ask.

Ole Close-Eyes and His Two Umbrellas

A story to read aloud · about 5 minutes

In Denmark, in the days when the streets of Copenhagen were lit by lamps, there lived someone who knew more stories than anybody else in the world. His name was Ole Lukøje. In English we call him Ole Close-Eyes, or the Sandman.

Every evening, while children are sitting at the table or curled up in their little chairs, Ole Close-Eyes comes up the stairs. He walks very softly, because he walks in his socks. Then he sprinkles something soft and fine into the children’s eyes, just enough to make them heavy. Some say it is dust as fine as sand. In Denmark they say it is a drop of sweet milk. Then he blows gently on the backs of their necks, until their heads begin to nod.

He never means any harm, because he loves children dearly. He only wants them still and cozy so that he can tell them his stories, and children are never still until they are tucked into bed.

Once they are asleep, Ole Close-Eyes sits on the edge of the bed. His silk coat shines green, then red, then blue as he turns. Under each arm he carries an umbrella. One umbrella is painted inside with pictures, and when he opens it over a child, that child dreams the most wonderful stories all night long. The other umbrella has no pictures at all. He opens that one when a child is so tired that what they need most is deep, quiet sleep.

Once, Ole Close-Eyes came every night for a whole week to a little boy named Hjalmar.

On Tuesday night he touched the picture on Hjalmar’s wall with his little magic wand. The painted birds began to sing, the painted trees rustled, and the clouds drifted across the painted sky. Then Ole lifted Hjalmar right up into the frame, and there he stood in the tall grass with the sun shining down on him. A little red-and-white boat with silver sails lay waiting, and six swans with golden rings around their necks pulled him down the river past shining castles, while red and blue birds flew after him in two long lines.

On Wednesday it rained so hard that the street outside became a lake, and a beautiful ship floated right up to the window. “Will you sail with me tonight, little Hjalmar?” asked Ole. “We shall see far-off countries, and you shall be home again by morning.”

Away they sailed, and they met a flock of storks flying south to warm Africa. The last stork was so tired that he sank onto the deck, and a sailor boy put him in the coop with the hens. The ducks and the turkey only laughed at him, so Hjalmar let him out. The stork nodded to him, as if to say thank you, then spread his wide wings and flew away to the sunshine.

On Saturday Ole said, “Tonight I must make the whole world beautiful for tomorrow. I must climb the church steeple to see that the little sprites have polished the bells. I must see that the wind has blown the dust from the grass and leaves. And hardest of all, I must take down all the stars and brighten them up. I count each one before I put it in my apron, and I count each little hole it came from, so every star goes back into its own place. Otherwise they would tumble down one after another as falling stars.”

Nobody knows exactly where Ole Close-Eyes came from. He says he is very, very old, older than the oldest portrait on anybody’s wall.

So if your eyes grow heavy tonight and you feel a soft, warm breath on the back of your neck, don’t try to peek. It is only Ole Close-Eyes in his stocking feet, opening his umbrella full of pictures over you. Good night.

Adapted from Hans Christian Andersen, “Ole Lukoje” (“Ole-Luk-Oie”), in Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen (1841). Public domain. Read the original.

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