fears we have had for you![29]”
“Yes, father,” answered he, “I have travelled all over the world, I think, in one way or other, since we parted; and now I am very glad to come home and get fresh air again.”
“Why, where have you been?” said his father.
“I have been in a mouse-hole, and in a snail-shell, and down a cow’s stomach, and in the wolf’s belly. And now here I am again, safe and sound[30].”
“Well,” said they, “You came back and we will not sell you again for all the riches in the world.”
Then they hugged and kissed their dear little son. They gave him a lot to eat and drink, because he was very hungry. So Master Thumb stayed at home with his father and mother. He was a traveler, and had done and seen so many fine things, and liked telling the whole story. He always agreed that, after all, there’s no place like HOME!
The Nightingale and yhe Rose
O. Wilde
“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”
From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him. She looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I have read all the books, and I know all the secrets of philosophy. But it is only the red rose that matters.”
“He is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Every night I sing songs about love and lovers and now I can see one of them. His hair is dark, and his lips are red, his face is pale.”
“The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,” said the young Student, “and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me. If I bring her a red rose, I will hold her in my arms. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I will sit lonely, and she will pass me by. And my heart will break.”
“He is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is dearer than fine opals.”
“The musicians will play their instruments,” said the young Student, “and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. But no, she will not dance, because I have no red rose to give her”; and he closed his eyes with his hands and cried and cried.
“Why is he crying?” asked a little Green Lizard.
“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly.
“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy.
“He is crying for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!”
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sadness. She sat in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her wings, and flew to the garden.
There was a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it.
“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 snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows near the river, and maybe he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree.
“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 flowers on the field. But go to my brother who grows near the Student’s window, and maybe he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing near 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 coral. But the storm has broken my branches, and I will 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 can’t 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 create it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart. Your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”
“I will die to pay a price for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “I love Life. I love sitting in the green wood, and to watch the Sun and the Moon. But Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to[31] the heart of a man?”
So she spread her wings and flew to the Student.
The young Student was still lying on the grass and crying.
“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy! You will have your red rose. I will create it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you is that you will be a true lover. Love is wiser than Philosophy.”
The Student looked up, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him. He only knew the things from the books.
The Oak-tree understood, and felt sad. He loved the little Nightingale.
“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I will feel very lonely when you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was wonderful.
“She sings well,” the Student said to himself, “but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. She thinks only about music, she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity[32] it is that they do not mean anything.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his little bed, and began to think of his love. After a time, he fell asleep.
When the Nightingale saw the Moon in the sky, she flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her heart against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast.
She sang first about love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And there came a wonderful rose on the top of the Rose-tree. The rose was pale.
The Tree cried to the Nightingale, “Press closer, little Nightingale or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and sang louder and louder. She sang about love in the soul of a man and a woman.
The rose was now pink, like the lips of a girl.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale, “Press closer, little Nightingale, or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart. She was in pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song about Love and Death.
And the wonderful rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. But the Nightingale’s voice grew weaker, and her little wings began to beat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The red rose heard it, and opened its petals to the cold morning air.
“Look, look!” cried