omed and the swallows
twittered; his heart was always full of disappointment, and often he
cried out in anguish against the cruelty of fame that it came not to
him. And each time the roses bent closer to him, and the swallows flew
lower, and there in the garden the sweet flowers and little birds
cried, "Listen to us,--listen to us, and we will help you."

And one evening the young composer, hearing their gentle pleadings,
smiled sadly, and said: "Yes, I will listen to you. What have you to
say, pretty roses?"

"Make your songs of us," whispered the roses,--"make your songs of us."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the composer. "A song of the roses would be very
strange, indeed! No, sweet flowers,--it is fame I seek, and fame would
scorn even the beauty of your blushes and the subtlety of your
perfumes."

"You are wrong," twittered the swallows, flying lower. "You are wrong,
foolish man. Make a song for the heart,--make a song of the swallows
and the roses, and it will be sung forever, and your fame shall never
die."

But the composer laughed louder than before; surely there never had
been a stranger suggestion than that of the roses and the swallows!
Still, in his chamber that night the composer thought of what the
swallows had said, and in his dreams he seemed to hear the soft tones
of the roses pleading with him. Yes, many times thereafter the
composer recalled what the birds and flowers had said, but he never
would ask them as he sat in the garden at evening how he could make the
heart-song of which they chattered. And the summer sped swiftly by,
and one evening when the composer came into the garden the roses were
dead, and their leaves lay scattered on the ground. There were no
swallows fluttering in the sky, and the nests under the eaves were
deserted. Then the composer knew his little friends were beyond
recall, and he was oppressed by a feeling of loneliness. The roses and
the swallows had grown to be a solace to the composer, had stolen into
his heart all unawares,--now that they were gone, he was filled with
sadness.

"I will do as they counselled," said he; "I will make a song of
them,--a song of the swallows and the roses. I will forget my greed
for fame while I write in memory of my little friends."

Then the composer made a song of the swallows and the roses, and, while
he wrote, it seemed to him that he could hear the twittering of the
little birds all around him, and scent the fragrance of the flo