what good could they do? They had a watchmaker come, and after a good
deal of talking and examining and tinkering he got the works to go again
somehow. But he said the bird must be used sparingly, for the works were
much worn, and he could not renew them so as to be sure that the music
would go right. This caused great sorrow. The imitation bird could only
be allowed to sing once a year. Each time the music-master made a little
speech full of difficult words, and affirmed that the singing was just
as good as ever. After being thus reassured the court listened to the
bird with all their former pleasure.
At the end of five years a great grief came on the nation. The Chinese
were all very fond of their emperor, and now he was ill, and it was
reported that he had not long to live. A new emperor had been selected,
and would be proclaimed ruler of the empire as soon as the old emperor
was dead. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and corridors to
deaden the sound of footsteps, and the palace was very, very quiet.
Outside, about the entrance, many people had gathered, and they asked
the chamberlain how their emperor was getting on.
“Pooh!” he said, and shook his head.
Pale and motionless lay the emperor in his great splendid bed, and
presently the courtiers thought he was dead. So they all went away to
pay their respects to the new emperor. The pages ran out to gossip about
it, and the chambermaids had a grand teaparty.
But the emperor was not dead yet. There he lay on the gorgeous bed with
its velvet hangings and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open, and the
moon shone in on him and the artificial bird. He could hardly breathe,
and he felt burdened by a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and
saw that Death was sitting on his chest and wore the emperor’s golden
crown on his head. In one hand he held the emperor’s golden sword, and
in the other the emperor’s imperial banner. Round about, from among the
folds of the velvet hangings peered many strange faces, some hideous,
and others gentle and pleasant. These were all the emperor’s bad and
good deeds staring at him now that Death was sitting on his heart.
“Do you remember this?” they whispered one after the other. “Do you
recollect this?” And they told him so many things that the perspiration
ran down from his brow.
“Say no more,” begged the emperor, and then shouted: “Music, music!
Sound the great drum so that I may not hear what these faces are
saying.”
But they went on questioning him, and Death sat nodding his approval to
all that they said.
“Music, music!” shrieked the emperor. “You precious little golden bird,
sing, sing! I have given you costly jewels, and I have hung my golden
garter round your neck. Sing, I tell you, sing!”
But the bird was silent. It could not sing without being wound up, and
there was no one at hand to do that. Death continued to gaze at the
emperor with the great empty sockets of his eyes, and all was
still—terribly still.
Suddenly, through the open window, there came the sound of sweetest
singing. The living nightingale was perched on a bough outside. It had
heard of the emperor’s illness, and had come to bring comfort and hope
to him by its singing. As it sang, the ghostly faces around became
fainter and fainter, and the blood coursed with fresh vigor through the
emperor’s veins, and strengthened his feeble limbs. Even Death listened
and said, “Go on, little nightingale, go on!”
“Yes,” said the nightingale, “I will go on if you will give me the
emperor’s beautiful golden sword and imperial banner and jeweled crown.”
“I will relinquish each of the three treasures in exchange for a song,”
said Death.
So the nightingale sang three songs, and the last was about the quiet
churchyard where the roses bloom, and the flowers of the elder scent the
air, and where the grass is ever moistened by the tears of the mourners.
This song made Death desire to be in his own garden, and like a cold
gray mist he floated out through the window.
“Thanks, thanks!” said the emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know
you well. I banished you from my empire, and yet you have charmed the
evil visions away from my bed by your song, and removed Death from my
heart. How can I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the nightingale, “by the tears I brought to
your eyes the very first time I sang to you. Those are the jewels which
gladden the heart of a singer, and I shall never forget them. But sleep
now, that you may get well and strong.”
Again the nightingale sang, and the emperor fell into a refreshing
slumber. When he awoke, the sun was shining in on him through the
window, and he found himself vigorous and well. None of his attendants
had yet come back to him, for they thought he was dead, but the
nightingale still sat singing.
“You must always stay with me,” said the emperor, “and I will smash the
imitation bird into a thousand pieces.”
“Don’t do that,” said the nightingale. “It did the best it could. Keep
it as before. As for me, I cannot build my nest and live in the palace.
Let me come when I like, and I will sit on this bough in the evening and
sing to you. I will sing to cheer you and to make you think. I will sing
of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of what is
good and what is evil around you. The little singing bird flies far and
wide—to the poor fishermen, to the peasants in their humble cottages,
and to many others who are distant from you and your court. I love your
heart more than your crown, and I will come and sing to you, but you
must grant me one request.”
“That I will do, whatever it may be,” said the emperor, who had now
risen from his bed and put on his imperial robes.
“I only ask,” said the nightingale, “that you let no one know that you
have a little bird which tells you everything. It will be better so.”
Then the nightingale flew away. Immediately afterward the attendants
came in to look after their dead emperor. They stood aghast at sight of
him, and the emperor said, “Good morning!”
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THE PRINCESS AND THE GIANT
THERE once lived a king and queen who ought to have been as happy as the
day is long, for they had a large and prosperous kingdom in which the
people were contented and industrious, and they had a splendid palace
and plenty of horses and carriages; and their treasure-room was filled
with gold, silver, and precious stones. Yet notwithstanding all this
they were sad and sorrowful, because they had no children to inherit the
good things they possessed.
One bright winter morning the queen went out into the palace garden. The
snow covered the ground and clung to the trees and bushes, and it
sparkled in the sunshine just as if all the jewels in the king’s
treasury had been scattered about on it. The queen seated herself on a
stone bench beneath a huge oaktree. She had not been there long when an
old man came down a garden path and stood before her. He was a wicked
magician named Surtur, who lived in a cave not far away.
“O queen!” he said, “you have long wished for a child. Your wish shall
be granted, and a daughter will be born to you; but I warn you that she
will cause you great unhappiness. She is destined to marry a terrible
giant, and she will burn your palace; and the king, her father, will
perish in the flames.”
So saying, he laughed spitefully and went away. The queen was greatly
troubled, for she knew that Surtur was her enemy and that he was
powerful; but as time went on she got over her anxiety and seldom
thought of the old magician’s threat. At length the little daughter was
born, and all the court agreed that she was the most beautiful child
ever seen. More important still, she grew up as good as she was
beautiful.
Things went as well with her as could be desired year after year until
there came a time when the queen told her daughter about the prophecy of
the magician. From that day a change came over the princess. She no
longer laughed and danced, but walked about the rooms alone, often
weeping. Finally, at her request, the king built her a house in which
she lived with her own attendants, and there she stayed continually,
fearful that if she went to the palace she would bring disaster on her
father, and that if she walked around outdoors the giant might kidnap
her.
Once, when she was sitting in her room, with her work that used to give
her such pleasure lying idly on her lap, she heard some one knocking at
the door. She opened it, and there stood a funny little old woman with a
high, peaked hat on her head. The little old woman asked if she might
come in and rest.
“Yes,” replied the princess listlessly.
So the little old woman came in, and they sat down, and the visitor
began telling some wonderful stories. At last the princess got so
interested that she looked quite bright and happy, like her old self.
Presently the old woman said: “Now I want you to come into the woods
with me. It is a lovely day, and you will enjoy walking there in the
shade of the trees.”
At first the princess declared she did not care to go, but after a while
she allowed herself to be persuaded, and they went forth to wander on
the mossy paths among the tall, straight-stemmed firs and graceful
beeches and feathery birches. The princess forgot her sorrow, and she
laughed and ran about in great enjoyment. When they were tired they sat
down on a green bank, and the old woman said, “Tell me, my dear
princess, why of late you have been so sad.”
Her companion looked so kind and gentle that the princess could not
refuse to answer, and she told of the prophecy that she would marry a
terrible giant, and cause her father’s death by burning his palace. “And
oh,” she cried, “I love my father dearly! He has always been very good
to me. Now I must hasten back to my house. I ought not to have left it,
and I never will again. If I stay in it all the time I cannot possibly
harm my father or marry that horrible giant.”
“Wait a bit,” said the little old woman. “I am your godmother, and I
think we can find some way to avert the evils you fear. You are
persecuted by the wicked magician, Surtur. He wanted to marry your
mother, and when she would not have him, and married your father, he
vowed he would never rest till the king was dead and she was punished.
But his power has its limits. The king’s palace I cannot save, but
neither your father nor mother shall be hurt. Nor need you fear the
giant, if you will do exactly as I bid you. We will act at once. First
see your father and persuade him to go out riding in the forest with all
his attendants.”
Greatly relieved by her godmother’s cheery words, the princess hastened
to do as she had been bidden. “Dear father,” said she, as she came into
his presence, “the day is so fine, will you not go for a ride in the
woods and take the courtiers with you?”
The king, pleased to see her so bright and interested, at once said he
would go; and with all his courtiers in attendance started off for a
great excursion in the forest.
As soon as they were well out of sight, the little old woman joined the
princess and had her send the servants away on various errands, and the
queen was induced to go and stay for a time in the house built for the
princess. When every one was gone, the little old dame helped the
princess carry out and secrete all the treasure and other valuables, and
afterward she told the princess to take down a can of oil from the
kitchen mantel-shelf. In doing this the girl’s foot slipped, and the oil
spilled on the hearth and into the fire, and at once flashed into
flames. The princess and her godmother had to run for their lives, and
the fire spread rapidly through the palace.
They paused at a safe distance and looked back, and the old woman said:
“Thus one part of the magician’s prophecy has been fulfilled without
harm to any one. I could not prevent what has happened, but it might
have been worse. Surtur has other evil designs. We will see what we can
do to thwart them. Here is a little silver ball. Throw it on the ground
and follow it as it rolls along. It will guide you to a hut in the
forest, the owner of which will be away. Go in and await his return, and
whatever you do, remember that you must see him before he sees you.
Remain at the hut till I summon you. When you hear me calling you, do
not lose an instant, but hasten to where your father’s palace stood.
Your mother will need you.”
The princess took the ball, threw it down, and followed it as it rolled
along into the forest. At last it stopped before what seemed to be a
woodman’s hut, and she picked up the ball and put it in her pocket. Then
she went into the hut and hid behind the half-closed door. She peeped
out through a crack and presently saw a huge giant coming carrying on
his shoulders a bear he had killed in his hunting. He pushed open the
door, and as he threw down the burden he beheld the princess.
The giant looked very fierce, but his voice was soft and kind, and he
told her he wanted her to live in the hut with him and cook the food and
sweep the floor and make the beds. All this the princess promised to do.
He then showed her a little inner chamber, and said, “Here you can
sleep, and no matter what noises you hear in my part of the hut during
the night, don’t come out of your room.”
[Illustration]
Three days passed. Early each morning the giant went forth from the hut
and did not return until sunset. The princess cooked the food, made the
beds, and kept the hut tidy and clean. At night she heard frightful
noises in the outer room, the walls of the hut shook, and the earth
trembled, and she lay in her bed hardly daring to stir, with the clothes
pulled over her ears to deaden the terrible sounds. Whenever she fell
asleep she dreamed that a handsome young prince, instead of the giant,
was her fellow-dweller in the hut.
On the third evening she retired early, and was scarcely in bed when she
heard, faint and far away, the voice of the little old woman calling
her. Then she knew her mother needed her, and immediately she jumped out
of bed, dressed, and cautiously opened her door. No one was in the next
room, and she ran as quickly as she could to where her father’s palace
had stood. There, before the ruins, she saw her mother tied to a wooden
stake that had been driven into the ground, and the servants were piling
up fagots of wood around her. She had been condemned to death for having
set the palace on fire during the king’s absence, and for stealing his
treasure. In vain she had pleaded her innocence.
The princess pushed her way through the crowd and threw herself on her
knees before her father. “Oh, stop, stop!” she cried eagerly. “Dear
father, my mother is not to blame. It was I who burned your palace. I
was forced to do so in order to save your life, which was threatened by
the wicked magician, Surtur. Neither did my mother steal your treasure.
That and much else was taken out of the palace to a place of safety.”
On hearing this, the king ordered the queen to be released, and she
embraced her daughter with many words of affection.
As soon as possible the princess hurried back to the hut of the giant in
the forest. When she approached it she heard the sounds of a terrific
combat. She looked in and saw the giant engaged in a struggle for
mastery with the magician. From her pocket she hastily took the silver
ball the little old woman had given to her and hurled it at the wicked
Surtur. Her aim was true, and the moment the ball hit him he changed to
a hawk, and with a rapid flutter of wings darted out of the door and
disappeared.
The giant picked up the ball, and to the surprise of the princess he was
transformed into the handsome young prince she had seen in her dreams.
They went back together to the king and queen, and before long there was
a great marriage-feast, and the princess became the wife of the prince
she had delivered from his enchantment. After the death of the king the
prince became the ruler of the kingdom, and he and his queen lived
happily all the days of their life.
[Illustration:
The End
]
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ This illustration is missing.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=);
had extra character spacing by “plus” signs (+stretched+).