By the end of the year there were as many opinions about this matter as there had been in the beginning; but a majority of the wise and the simple were agreed that the safest plan would be for the little king to make choice beforehand, and the earlier the better.  So an edict was sent forth commanding all persons who owned singing creatures to bring them to the great hall of the palace in the morning of the first day of the new year.  This command was obeyed.  When everything was in readiness for the trial, the king made his solemn entry with the great officers of the crown, all clothed in their robes of state.  The king mounted his golden throne and prepared to give judgment.  But he presently said: 

“These creatures all sing at once; the noise is unendurable; no one can choose in such a turmoil.  Take them all away, and bring back one at a time.”

This was done.  One sweet warbler after another charmed the young king’s ear and was removed to make way for another candidate.  The precious minutes slipped by; among so many bewitching songsters he found it hard to choose, and all the harder because the promised penalty for an error was so terrible that it unsettled his judgment and made him afraid to trust his own ears.  He grew nervous and his face showed distress.  His ministers saw this, for they never took their eyes from him a moment.  Now they began to say in their hearts: 

“He has lost courage—­the cool head is gone—­he will err—­he and his dynasty and his people are doomed!”

At the end of an hour the king sat silent awhile, and then said: 

“Bring back the linnet.”

The linnet trilled forth her jubilant music.  In the midst of it the king was about to uplift his scepter in sign of choice, but checked himself and said: 

“But let us be sure.  Bring back the thrush; let them sing together.”

The thrush was brought, and the two birds poured out their marvels of song together.  The king wavered, then his inclination began to settle and strengthen—­one could see it in his countenance.  Hope budded in the hearts of the old ministers, their pulses began to beat quicker, the scepter began to rise slowly, when:  There was a hideous interruption!  It was a sound like this—­just at the door: 

“Waw . . . he! waw . . . he! waw-he!-waw he!-waw-he!”

Everybody was sorely startled—­and enraged at himself for showing it.

The next instant the dearest, sweetest, prettiest little peasant-maid of nine years came tripping in, her brown eyes glowing with childish eagerness; but when she saw that august company and those angry faces she stopped and hung her head and put her poor coarse apron to her eyes.  Nobody gave her welcome, none pitied her.  Presently she looked up timidly through her tears, and said: 

“My lord the king, I pray you pardon me, for I meant no wrong.  I have no father and no mother, but I have a goat and a donkey, and they are all in all to me.  My goat gives me the sweetest milk, and when my dear good donkey brays it seems to me there is no music like to it.  So when my lord the king’s jester said the sweetest singer among all the animals should save the crown and nation, and moved me to bring him here—­”