ght, and had come to sing to him of
comfort and hope. As it sang the specters grew paler and paler; the
blood ran quicker and more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs; and
even Death listened, and said:

"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"

"But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that
rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's crown?"

And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the
Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet churchyard where
the white roses grow, where the elder blossoms smell sweet, and where
the fresh grass is moistened by the tears of survivors. Then Death felt
a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form
of a cold white mist.

"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird; I know
you well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have
charmed away the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my
heart! How can I reward you?"

"You have rewarded me!" replied the Nightingale. "I have drawn tears
from your eyes, when I sang the first time--I shall never forget that.
Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now sleep, and
grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you something."

And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and
refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows
when he awoke refreshed and restored: not one of his servants had yet
returned, for they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still
sat beside him and sang.

"You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you
please; and I'll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces."

"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could;
keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace
to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in
the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something,
so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who
are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that
remains hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far
around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to everyone who
dwells far away from you and from your Court. I love your heart more
than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I
will come and sing to you--but one thing you mus