you will guarantee him immortality. But the rose, the trusting
little earth-born rose, that must stay all her life rooted in one spot
till some nightingale comes to choose her--some nightingale whose song
maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which
are at the moment pot-pourri--ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...'

Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly--

'Well--there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!'

'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!'

'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of
course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but
half-born--humourists always prefer to deliver themselves--so I shook my
head.

'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of
her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey' and
'Stupid,'--which I recognised and meekly bore.

'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But
don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no
nightingales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is
always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the
nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.'

'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx.

'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses--but ...
but....'

'But what?'

'But--well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.'

'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I
cannot bear them.'

'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is
worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns.
It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly
understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that
is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose--of that you may
be sure....'

'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject.

'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.'

And it was thus I sang:--

O Rose of the World, a nightingale,
A Bird of the World, am I,
I have loved all the world and sung all the world,
But I come to your side to die.

Tired of the world, as the world of me,
I plead for your quiet breast,
I have loved all the world and sung all the world--
But--where is the nightingale's nest?

In a hundred gardens I sung the rose,
Ro