“I have seen tears in the Emperor’s eyes—­that is the real treasure to me.  An Emperor’s tears have a strange power.  I am paid enough!” Then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.

“That’s the most lovely way of making love I ever saw!” said the ladies who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when any one spoke to them.  They thought they should be nightingales too.  And the lackeys and maids let it be known that they were pleased too; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the hardest of all to please.  In short, the Nightingale made a real hit.

It was now to remain at court, to have its own cage, with freedom to go out twice every day and once at night.  It had twelve servants, and they all had a silken string tied to the bird’s leg which they held very tight.  There was really no pleasure in going out.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said nothing but “Nightin,” and the other said “gale”; and then they sighed, and understood one another.  Eleven storekeepers’ children were named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note.

II—­THE TOY NIGHTINGALE

One day a large parcel came to the Emperor, on which was written “The Nightingale.”

“Here we have a new book about this famous bird,” said the Emperor.

But it was not a book:  it was a little work of art, that lay in a box; a toy nightingale, which was to sing like a live one, but it was all covered with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.  So soon as the toy bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that the real one sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold.  Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, “The Emperor of Japan’s Nightingale is poor beside that of the Emperor in China.”

“That is capital!” said they all, and he who had brought the toy bird at once got the title Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.

“Now they must sing together:  what a duet that will be!”

And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the toy bird sang waltzes.

“That’s not its fault,” said the Play-master:  “it’s quite perfect, and very much in my style.”

Now the toy bird was to sing alone.  It made just as much of a hit as the real one, and then it was so much more fine to look at—­it shone like bracelets and breastpins.

Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not tired.  The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to sing a little something.  But where was it?  No one had noticed that it had flown away, out of the open window, back to its green woods.

“But what is become of it?” asked the Emperor.

Then all the courtiers scolded, and thought the Nightingale was a very thankless creature.