ter."

As the evening came on, and the gnats played in the warm air and in
the red clouds, the nightingale came and sang to the roses; sang that
the beautiful is as the sunshine in this world, and that the beautiful
lives for ever. But the roses thought that the nightingale sang his
own praise, which one might very well have fancied; for that the song
related to them, of that they never thought: they rejoiced in it,
however, and meditated if perhaps all the little sparrows could become
nightingales too.

"I understood _the song of that bird quite well_," said the young
sparrows; "one word only was not quite clear to me. What was the
meaning of 'the beautiful?'"

"That is nothing," said the mamma sparrow, "that is only something
external. Yonder at the mansion, where the pigeons have a house of
their own, and where every day peas and corn is strewn before them--I
have myself eaten there with them, and you shall, too, in time; tell
me what company you keep, and I'll tell you who you are--yes, yonder
at the mansion they have got two birds with green necks and a comb on
their head; they can spread out their tail like a great wheel, and in
it plays every color, that it quite hurts one's eyes to look at it.
These birds are called peacocks, and that is 'THE BEAUTIFUL.' They
only want to be plucked a little, and then they would not look at all
different from the rest of us. I would already have plucked them, if
they had not been quite so big."

"I will pluck them," chirped the smallest sparrow, that as yet had not
a single feather.

In the peasant's cottage dwelt a young married couple; they loved each
other dearly, and were industrious and active: everything in their
house looked so neat and pretty. On Sunday morning early the young
woman came out, gathered a handful of the most beautiful roses, and
put them into a glass of water, which she placed on the shelf.

"Now I see that it is Sunday," said the man, and kissed his little
wife. They sat down, read in the hymn-book, and held each other by the
hand: the sun beamed on the fresh roses and on the young married
couple.

"This is really too tiring a sight," said the mamma sparrow, who from
her nest could look into the room, and away she flew.

The next Sunday it was the same, for every Sunday fresh roses were put
in the glass: yet the rose-tree bloomed on equally beautiful. The
young sparrows had now feathers, and wanted much to fly with their
mother; she, however, w