Once upon a time there was a city where the good people were under the
protection of singing-birds of all kinds: nightingales, thrushes,
blackbirds, robins, chaffinches, linnets. As you passed through the
streets the song of one at least of these little fellows was certain to
strike pleasantly on the ear; for they would perch on the window-sills,
or in the branches of the trees before the houses, and fling out their
glad notes.
No money could buy the birds. It mattered not how rich a man was, if he
were not merry at heart no bird's voice could be his to gladden the
hours with song.
Fugitives fleeing across the wide plain at night would, once within the
gates of the city, pause a moment with raised finger, listening
breathlessly. Then the still air would be filled with beautiful,
consoling music, and 'Hark,' they would say, 'the nightingale! A good
man lives close by. Let us knock and ask protection.' And travellers
hearing a blackbird whistling gaily before a hostelry would know that
within doors was brave cheer and jocund company.
Most of the children in the city had each a bird friend, and it was a
sad day when the wings spread and the songster flew away, for that meant
that in the heart of the child all was not well. Always, however, when
the smiles came back, back came also the little feathered companion.