“Thanks! thanks!” said the emperor, “you heavenly little bird! I know you well, I banished you from my dominions, and yet have you sung away those evil faces from my bedside, and expelled Death from my heart. How can I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the nightingale. “I beguiled tears from your eyes the first time I sang—I shall never forget that! Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer’s heart. But now sleep and grow strong and healthy. I will sing to you.”
And she sang, and the emperor fell into a sweet sleep. And most mild and beneficent was that slumber.
The sun was shining through the window when he awoke, refreshed and restored to health. None of his servants had returned, for they thought he was dead; but the nightingale still sat and sang.
“You must always remain with me,” said the emperor. “You shall only sing when you choose, and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”
“Do not do that,” said the nightingale; “the bird did good as long as it could. Keep it as before. I cannot build my nest and live in the palace, but let me come when I have a mind, and I will sit on the bough near the window of an evening and sing to you, that you may be at once glad and thoughtful. I will sing of the happy, and of those who suffer. I will tell of the bad and the good that is concealed from you by those about your person. For the little songster flies far around to the poor fishermen, and to the peasants’ humble roof, and to all who live at so great a distance from yourself and your court. I love your heart better than your crown, and yet the crown has a perfume of sacredness about it too. I will come and sing to you, but you must promise me one thing.”
“All I possess!” said the emperor, as he stood in his imperial robes, which he had himself put on, and pressed his sword of weighty gold to his heart.
“One thing only I require of you: that is, to let no one know you have a little bird who tells you everything, and all will be for the best.” And away the nightingale flew.
The servants came in to look after their late emperor. . . . When there, they stood in amazement on hearing the emperor say “Good morning!”
.png){kind=small}
The Garden of Paradise
THE FOUR WINDS
HERE once lived a king’s son, who possessed a larger and more beautiful collection of books than anybody ever had before. He could read in their pages all the events that had ever taken place in the world, and see them illustrated by the most exquisite engravings.
He could obtain information about any people or any country, only not a word could he ever find as to the geographical position of the Garden of the World; and this was just what he was most desirous of ascertaining.
His grandmother had told him, when he was quite a little boy, and beginning to go to school, that each flower in the Garden of the World was the most delicious cake, and had its stamina filled with luscious wine; on one stood written historical facts, on another geography or arithmetical tables—and so one need only eat cakes to learn one’s lesson, and the more one ate, the more history, geography, and arithmetic one acquired.
He used to believe this. But when he grew a little older, and had learned more and become wiser, he began to understand that there must be better delights than these in the Garden of the World.
He was now seventeen, and nothing ran in his head but this garden. One day he went to take a walk in the forest, all alone, as he best liked to be.
