"Do not do that!" said the nightingale. "It has done what it could. Keep it as before. I cannot settle down and live in the palace; let me come when I like; I will then sit on the branch outside the window in the evenings and sing to you, so that you can be happy and be inspired with fruitful thoughts. I will sing to you about those who are happy and about those who suffer; I will sing about the good and the evil around you which are kept hidden from you, for the little song-bird flies far around to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to every one, far away from you and your court. I love your heart better than your crown, and yet the crown has a fragrance of sanctity about it!—I will come, I will sing to you!—But one thing you must promise me."
"Everything!" said the emperor, as he stood there in his imperial robes, which he had himself put on, pressing the golden saber to his heart.
"One thing I beg of you! Do not tell any one that you have a little bird that tells you everything, and then all will go still better with you!"
And then the nightingale flew away. The servants came in to look after the dead emperor—yes, there they stood, and the emperor said: "Good morning!"
