r.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and
she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed
across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and
whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows
round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the
old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil
that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go
to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he
will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath
the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove,
and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the
ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has
nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have
no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose!
Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare
not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music