Almost instantly his feeling of sadness left him, and he felt quite happy and refreshed.  He stretched himself on the thick perfumed moss, and listened to the tinkling of the water, and it was not long before he fell asleep.

When he awakened the moon was shining, the pool sparkled like a silver plaque crusted with diamonds, and two nightingales were singing in the branches over his head.  And the next moment he found out that he understood their language just as plainly as if they had been human beings instead of birds.  The water with which he had quenched his thirst was enchanted, and had given him this new power.

“Poor boy!” said one nightingale, “he looks tired; I wonder where he came from.”

“Why, my dear,” said the other, “is it possible you don’t know that he is Prince Fairyfoot?”

“What!” said the first nightingale—­“the King of Stumpinghame’s son, who was born with small feet?”

“Yes,” said the second.  “And the poor child has lived in the forest, keeping the swineherd’s pigs ever since.  And he is a very nice boy, too—­never throws stones at birds or robs nests.”

“What a pity he doesn’t know about the pool where the red berries grow!” said the first nightingale.

PART III

“What pool—­and what red berries?” asked the second nightingale.

“Why, my dear,” said the first, “is it possible you don’t know about the pool where the red berries grow—­the pool where the poor, dear Princess Goldenhair met with her misfortune?”

“Never heard of it,” said the second nightingale, rather crossly.

“Well,” explained the other, “you have to follow the brook for a day and three-quarters, and then take all the paths to the left until you come to the pool.  It is very ugly and muddy, and bushes with red berries on them grow around it.”

“Well, what of that?” said her companion; “and what happened to the Princess Goldenhair?”

“Don’t you know that, either?” exclaimed her friend.

“No.”

“Ah!” said the first nightingale, “it was very sad.  She went out with her father, the King, who had a hunting party; and she lost her way, and wandered on until she came to the pool.  Her poor little feet were so hot that she took off her gold-embroidered satin slippers, and put them into the water—­her feet, not the slippers—­and the next minute they began to grow and grow, and to get larger and larger, until they were so immense she could hardly walk at all; and though all the physicians in the kingdom have tried to make them smaller, nothing can be done, and she is perfectly unhappy.”

“What a pity she doesn’t know about this pool!” said the other bird.  “If she just came here and bathed them three times in the water, they would be smaller and more beautiful than ever, and she would be more lovely than she has ever been.”

“It is a pity,” said her companion; “but, you know, if we once let people know what this water will do, we should be overrun with creatures bathing themselves beautiful, and trampling our moss and tearing down our rose-trees, and we should never have any peace.”