Once upon a time, there were twenty-five tin soldiers, all brothers, born from the same old tin spoon. They stood straight and proud, their muskets on their shoulders, their faces painted bright. Only one was different—he had only one leg, for the tin had run out. Yet, he stood as firm as all the others.

The boy who owned them clapped his hands in delight and placed them on a table with many wonderful toys. There were castles, little forests, paper swans, and a lovely paper dancer who stood on one leg too.

She wore a dress as light as cobweb, with a blue ribbon on her shoulder and a tiny golden star in her hair. Her arms were lifted high, and one leg stretched out, as if she too stood upon one. “She is perfect,” thought the Tin Soldier, “and perhaps she is like me.” The Tin Soldier looked at her, and his heart felt warm, though his face did not move.

Night fell, and the toys came to life. The nutcrackers marched, the dolls whispered, the mice scurried. But the Tin Soldier stood still, watching his paper dancer from afar. He longed to speak, but he was a soldier—he must stay steadfast.

A jack-in-the-box goblin popped up suddenly. “Tin Soldier,” he hissed, “stop looking at her!” But the Soldier said nothing. “Very well,” said the goblin. “You shall suffer for this.” Then the lid snapped shut.

The next morning, the window was opened. Perhaps it was the wind, or perhaps the goblin’s grumpy wish, for suddenly the Tin Soldier fell from the sill, tumbling down, down, until he struck the street below.

Rain poured down, and soon the Tin Soldier was swept into the gutter. A paper boat, made by a child, carried him away, rocking through tunnels and rushing streams. He stood firm, his musket on his shoulder, facing the dark and roaring water.

In the darkness, a rat appeared, its eyes glowing red. “Where’s your passport?” it snarled. But the Tin Soldier said nothing and pressed on, steadfast as ever. The rat screamed as the current swept him past.

The paper boat spun faster and faster. The paper was softening; the water rose over his feet. The boat gave one final whirl and suddenly, it sank. The Tin Soldier fell into the dark, deep river, swallowed by darkness.

A great fish opened its mouth and swallowed him whole. It was dark again, but the Tin Soldier remained calm. He thought of the paper dancer and her delicate smile. “I will be steadfast,” he whispered to himself.

One morning, the very fish was caught, cleaned, and opened in a bright kitchen. Out fell the Tin Soldier! The cook cried out, “Why, here is the soldier from the boy’s room!” He was carried back, shining though scarred by his journey.

He was placed once more on the table — and there she was, the paper dancer, still on one leg, still smiling. The Tin Soldier felt joy deep within his tin heart. He wanted to tell her he had returned, but remained steadfast and silent.

Then one of the boys, for no reason at all, took the Tin Soldier and threw him into the stove. The fire roared. The Soldier stood straight, melting slowly, his paint peeling, his shape trembling—but he never moved from his steadfast pose.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew the paper dancer into the stove beside him. She fluttered down like a white butterfly. They were together at last. She flamed up in a bright light—and was gone, a silent farewell.

When the fire was out, the servant found a little heart of tin among the ashes. It was all that remained of the steadfast soldier and the paper dancer’s tiny golden star. It shone faintly, like something that had loved truly and endured to the very end.