"Yes," said Death; and the little Nightingale
bought the Emperor's sceptre for
another song.
Once more Death begged for a song,
and this time the little Nightingale got the
banner for her singing. Then she sang one
more song, so sweet and so sad that it
made Death think of his garden in the
churchyard, where he always liked best
to be. And he rose from the Emperor's
heart and floated away through the window.
When Death was gone, the Emperor
said to the little Nightingale, "Oh, dear
little Nightingale, you have saved me from
Death! Do not leave me again. Stay with
me on this little gold perch, and sing to me
always!"
"No, dear Emperor," said the little
Nightingale, "I sing best when I am free;
I cannot live in a palace. But every night
when you are quite alone, I will come
and sit in the window and sing to you, and
tell you everything that goes on in your
kingdom: I will tell you where the poor
people are who ought to be helped, and
where the wicked people are who ought
to be punished. Only, dear Emperor, be
sure that you never let anybody know that
you have a little bird who tells you everything."
After the little Nightingale had flown
away, the Emperor felt so well and strong
that he dressed himself in his royal robes
and took his gold sceptre in his hand.
And when the courtiers came in to see if he
were dead, there stood the Emperor with
his sword in one hand and his sceptre in
the other, and said, "Good-morning!"
MARGERY'S GARDEN[1]
[1] I have always been inclined to avoid, in my work among
children, the "how to make" and "how to do" kind of story;
it is too likely to trespass on the ground belonging by right to
its more artistic and less intentional kinsfolk.
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