I’ll sing for you.”

It sang—and the emperor fell into a sweet sleep, a gentle restoring sleep.

The sun shone through the windows on him when he awoke, stronger and healthy. None of his servants had come back because they thought he was dead, but the nightingale was still sitting there singing.

“You must stay with me always,” said the emperor. “You’ll only sing when you want to, and I’ll crush the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”

“Don’t do that!” said the nightingale. “It has done what good it could. Keep it as always. I can’t live here at the palace, but let me come when I want to, and in the evenings I’ll sit on the branch by the window and sing for you so you can be happy and thoughtful too. I’ll sing about the happy and about those who suffer. I’ll sing about the good and evil that is hidden from you! Your little songbird flies far and wide to the poor fishermen, to the farmer’s roof, to everywhere that’s far from you and your palace. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet your crown has a scent of something sacred about it!—I’ll come, I’ll sing for you.—But you must promise me one thing.”

“Everything!” said the emperor, standing there in his royal clothing that he’d put on himself. He was holding the sword, heavy with gold, up to his heart.

“I ask you this one thing. Don’t tell anyone that you have a little bird that tells you everything. Then things will go even better.”

And the nightingale flew away.

Soon after the servants entered the room to see to their dead emperor—there they stood, and the emperor said, “Good morning.”

THE GARDENER AND THE GENTRY

ABOUT FIVE MILES FROM the capital there was an old manor house with thick walls, towers, and corbie gables.

A rich, noble family lived there, but only in the summer. This manor was the best and most beautiful of all the properties they owned. It looked like new outside and was full of comfort and coziness inside. The family coat of arms was engraved in stone above the estate gate, and beautiful roses were entwined around the crest and bay windows. A carpet of grass was spread out in front of the manor house. There were red and white hawthorn and rare flowers, even outside the greenhouse.

The family also had a very capable gardener. It was a delight to see the flower garden, and the fruit orchard and vegetable garden. Next to this there was still a remnant of the original old garden—some box hedges—clipped to form crowns and pyramids. Behind these stood two huge old trees. They were always almost leafless, and you could easily have believed that a stormy wind or a waterspout had spread big clumps of manure over them, but every clump was a bird nest.

A huge flock of shrieking rooks and crows had built nests here from times immemorial. It was an entire city of birds, and the birds were the masters, the occupiers of the property, the oldest family on the estate, and the real masters of the manor. None of the people down there concerned them, but they tolerated these crawling creatures, except that sometimes they banged with their guns, so it tickled the birds’ backbones and caused every bird to fly up in fear and cry, “scum, scum!”

The gardener often talked to the master and mistress about having the old trees cut down. They didn’t look good, and if they were gone, they would most likely be rid of the screaming birds, who would go elsewhere. But the master and mistress didn’t want to be rid of either the trees or the birds because they were from old times. Anything from old times was something the estate could and should not lose.

“Those trees are the birds’ inheritance, my good Larsen. Let them keep them.” The gardener’s name was Larsen, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Larsen, don’t you have enough room to work? The whole flower garden, the greenhouses, fruit and vegetables gardens?”

He did have those, and he cared for, watched over, and cultivated them with zeal and skill, and the master and mistress acknowledged that, but they didn’t conceal from him that they often ate fruits and saw flowers when visiting that surpassed what they had in their own gardens. That saddened the gardener because he always strived to do the best he could. He was good-hearted and good at his job.

One day the master and mistress called him in and told him in a gentle and lordly manner that the day before they had eaten some apples and pears at distinguished friends that were so juicy and so delicious that they and all the other guests had expressed their greatest admiration. The fruits were certainly not domestic, but they should be imported, and should be grown here if the climate would allow it.