te
there and wept and wept for his lost playmate.

Now when summer came the wild rose tree flowered. It was covered with
white roses, and amongst the flowers there sate a beautiful white bird.
And it sang and sang and sang like an angel out of heaven; but what it
sang the little boy could never make out, for he could hardly see for
weeping, hardly hear for sobbing.

So at last the beautiful white bird unfolded its broad white wings and
flew to a cobbler's shop, where a myrtle bush hung over the man and his
last, on which he was making a dainty little pair of rose-red shoes.
Then it perched on a bough and sang ever so sweetly:

"Stepmother slew me,
Father nigh ate me,
He whom I dearly love
Sits below, I sing above,
Stick! Stock! Stone dead!"

"Sing that beautiful song again," said the cobbler. "It is better than a
nightingale's."

"That will I gladly," sang the bird, "if you will give me the little
rose-red shoes you are making."

And the cobbler gave them willingly, so the white bird sang its song
once more. Then with the rose-red shoes in one foot it flew to an ash
tree that grew close beside a goldsmith's bench, and sang:

"Stepmother slew me,
Father nigh ate me,
He whom I dearly love
Sits below, I sing above,
Stick! Stock! Stone dead!"

"Oh, what a beautiful song!" cried the goldsmith.

"Sing again, dear bird, it is sweeter than a nightingale's."

"That will I gladly," sang the bird, "if you will give me the gold chain
you're making."

And the goldsmith gave the bauble willingly, and the bird sang its song
once more. Then with the rose-red shoes in one foot and the golden chain
in the other, the bird flew to an oak tree which overhung the mill
stream, beside which three millers were busy picking out a millstone,
and, perching on a bough, sang its song ever so sweetly:

"My stepmother slew me,
My father nigh ate me,
He whom I dearly love
Sits below, I sing above,
Stick!--"

Just then one of the millers put down his tool and listened.

"Stock!" sang the bird.

And the second miller put aside his tool and listened.

"Stone," sang the bird.

Then the third miller put aside his tool and listened.

"Dead!" sang the bird so sweetly that with one accord the millers looked
up and cried with one voice:

"Oh, what a beautiful song! Sing it again, dear bird, it is sweeter than
a nightingale's."

"That will I gladly," answered the bird, "if you will hang