But when they looked about for the real little Nightingale, they could not find her anywhere!  She had taken the chance, while everybody was listening to the waltz tunes, to fly away through the window to her own greenwood.

“What a very ungrateful bird!” said the lords and ladies.  “But it does not matter; the new nightingale is just as good.”

So the artificial nightingale was given the real Nightingale’s little gold perch, and every night the Emperor wound her up, and she sang waltz tunes to him.  The people in the court liked her even better than the old Nightingale, because they could all whistle her tunes,—­which you can’t do with real nightingales.

About a year after the artificial nightingale came, the Emperor was listening to her waltz-tune, when there was a snap and whir-R-R inside the bird, and the music stopped.  The Emperor ran to his doctor but he could not do anything.  Then he ran to his clock-maker, but he could not do much.  Nobody could do much.  The best they could do was to patch the gold nightingale up so that it could sing once a year; even that was almost too much, and the tune was pretty shaky.  Still, the Emperor kept the gold nightingale on the perch in his own room.

A long time went by, and then, at last, the Emperor grew very ill, and was about to die.  When it was sure that he could not live much longer, the people chose a new emperor and waited for the old one to die.  The poor Emperor lay, quite cold and pale, in his great big bed, with velvet curtains, and tall candlesticks all about.  He was quite alone, for all the courtiers had gone to congratulate the new emperor, and all the servants had gone to talk it over.

When the Emperor woke up, he felt a terrible weight on his chest.  He opened his eyes, and there was Death, sitting on his heart.  Death had put on the Emperor’s gold crown, and he had the gold sceptre in one hand, and the silken banner in the other; and he looked at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes.  The room was full of shadows, and the shadows were full of faces.  Everywhere the Emperor looked, there were faces.  Some were very, very ugly, and some were sweet and lovely; they were all the things the Emperor had done in his life, good and bad.  And as he looked at them they began to whisper.  They whispered, “Do you remember this?” “Do you remember that?” The Emperor remembered so much that he cried out loud, “Oh, bring the great drum!  Make music, so that I may not hear these dreadful whispers!” But there was nobody there to bring the drum.

Then the Emperor cried, “You little gold nightingale, can you not sing something for me?  I have given you gifts of gold and jewels, and kept you always by my side; will you not help me now?” But there was nobody to wind the little gold nightingale up, and of course it could not sing.