life to his weak limbs; and even Death himself listened, and said, “Go on,
little nightingale, go on.”
“Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich banner?
and will you give me the emperor’s crown?” said the bird.
So Death gave up each of these treasures for a song; and the nightingale
continued her singing. She sung of the quiet churchyard, where the white
roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume on the breeze, and the
fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the mourners’ tears. Then Death longed
to go and see his garden, and floated out through the window in the form of
a cold, white mist.
“Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I banished
you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces
from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your sweet song.
How can I reward you?”
“You have already rewarded me,” said the nightingale. “I shall never
forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to you. These
are the jewels that rejoice a singer’s heart. But now sleep, and grow strong
and well again. I will sing to you again.”
And as she sung, the emperor fell into a sweet sleep; and how mild and
refreshing that slumber was! When he awoke, strengthened and restored,
the sun shone brightly through the window; but not one of his servants had
returned-they all believed he was dead; only the nightingale still sat beside
him, and sang.
“You must always remain with me,” said the emperor. “You shall sing
only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand
pieces.”
