and all his courtiers are Chinamen, too. Now, this little story that I
am going to tell you happened ever so long ago, and that is why you
ought to hear it now, before it is forgotten, for it is well worth
hearing.
The Emperor lived in the most beautiful palace in the world and it was
a very costly one, for it was made of the finest porcelain, and was so
brittle that you had to be very careful if you touched it. It was
surrounded by such a large garden that the gardener himself did not
quite know where it ended. Lovely flowers grew in luxuriance, and,
lest people should pass the most beautiful without noticing them,
peals of silver bells were tied to their stems.
Truly, everything was carefully planned in the Emperor's garden. If
you kept on far enough, you came to a mighty forest which stretched
down so close to the margin of the sea that the poor fishermen in
their boats could sail under the overhanging branches.
In one of these boughs a nightingale lived, and so beautiful was its
song that the rough sailors would stop to listen on their way out to
spread their nets.
"Ah, what beautiful music!" they would exclaim, and then they had to
sail on, for they had their work to do. And again, when nightfall
came, and the bird sang, and the boats came drifting home on the tide,
they would say:
"Heavens! how gloriously that bird sings!"
Travellers came from all over the world to see the Emperor's city and
his palace and garden; but when they heard the Nightingale, they would
say:
"That is most beautiful of all."
And when the travellers reached their homes again, they told all their
friends of the wonderful things they had seen and heard; and wise
people wrote books, in which they did not forget to tell of the
Nightingale, which was pronounced the loveliest among many lovely
things. Even the poets wrote verses about this Nightingale that lived
in the wood by the sea.
And then, one by one, the books travelled over the world, until some
at last reached the hands of the Emperor, who sat in his golden chair
and read them, nodding his head with pleasure; for he was charmed with
the beautiful descriptions of his city and castle and garden. Then he
read the words:
"The Nightingale is the most lovely thing of all!"
"What is this?" he said. "The Nightingale! I have never heard of such
a bird, yet there seems to be one in my empire--and in my own garden!
Imagine learning of such a thing for the first time from a book!"
Thereupon he summoned his Chamberlain, who was a very important
person, and who never replied more than "Paugh!" to any inferior who
dared to ask him anything. This, of course, was no answer at all.
"This book tells of a very remarkable bird called a Nightingale," said
the Emperor. "They say it is the finest thing in my empire. Why has no
one told me about it before?"
"I have never heard anyone mention it before, myself," replied the
Chamberlain. "I don't remember that it has ever been presented at
Court."
"I command it to appear at Court and sing before me to-night," said
the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, it appears, except
myself."
"I have never heard of such a thing before," answered the Chamberlain
again, "but I will search until it is found."
But where was it? The Chamberlain searched up and down the palace,
through corridors and up staircases, but he could not find anyone who
had even heard of a nightingale. Then he hastened back to the Emperor
to say that it must certainly be an invention of the man who had
written the book.
"Your Imperial Majesty will scarcely credit the sort of things these
people will write," he said. "It is all fiction and something called
Black Art."
"But the great and mighty Mikado of Japan has sent me this book!"
shouted the Emperor, very much annoyed, "and, therefore, there cannot
be anything that is false in it. I must and shall hear the
Nightingale, and I command it to be present this evening. It has my
especial Royal favour, and if it is not here, the whole Court shall be
trampled upon by camels after supper."
"Tching Pe!" exclaimed the Chamberlain, very much alarmed, and raced
up and down stairs and through all the corridors again, accompanied
now by half the Court, who were not at all anxious to be trampled
upon, even after supper. It was a great search after this wonderful
Nightingale, of which all the world had heard, except the Emperor and
his courtiers.
At length they came to the kitchen, where a poor little scullery-maid
at once exclaimed:
"Why, yes, I know it well; and it sings beautifully! Every evening I
have permission to take the kitchen scraps to my sick mother, who
lives down on the sea-shore, and often, as I come back, I rest in the
wood and listen to the Nightingale, Its song makes my eyes fill with
tears, and I seem to be able to feel my mother's kisses."
"Little girl," the Chamberlain said, "if you will take us straight to
where the Nightingale lives you shall receive a high appointment in
the Royal kitchen, and be allowed to see the Emperor dine every night.
His Majesty has commanded it to sing before him this evening."
So the girl led the Chamberlain and all the Court to the wood where
the Nightingale sang. When they were half-way there a cow began to
low.
"Hark!" said all the courtiers. "What a beautiful note, and how
powerful for such a tiny creature! I have certainly heard it before."
"No," said the maid, "that is only the lowing of a cow. We have a long
way to go yet."
"Oh, how exquisite!" murmured the Chinese Court-chaplain, as he heard
the frogs croaking in a marsh. "Now I can hear it; why, it resembles
the chime of silver bells."
"No, those are only the marsh frogs," said the little maid. "But we
shall soon be able to hear it now." And then, just as she spoke, the
Nightingale commenced to sing.
"Ah, now!" said the girl. "Listen, listen! There it sits up in the
branches," and she pointed to a tiny gray bird clinging to a spray of
thorn.
"I should never have believed it would look like that," exclaimed the
Chamberlain. "It looks so simple and so pale; it must be frightened at
the sight of so many grand people."
"Dear Nightingale," called the little girl, "our most noble Emperor
desires you to sing to him."
"Oh, certainly, with pleasure," replied the Nightingale; and it sang
so beautifully it was a treat to hear it.
"It is like the sound of running water; and see how its tiny throat
quivers, too," the Chamberlain said. "How strange that we have never
heard it talked about before! It will be an immense success at Court."
"Would the Emperor like to hear another song?" asked the bird, for it
thought the Emperor had been listening all the time.
"Most worthy Nightingale," the Chamberlain replied, "it is with great
pleasure I command you to appear before his Majesty at a Court
reception to-night, when you will charm his Majesty with your
delightful singing."
"It sounds so much more beautiful out in the wood," said the bird; but
still it promised willingly when it heard it was the Emperor's royal
desire.
The palace was very elegant in its decorations. The porcelain walls
and floors glittered and shone with the reflection from many lamps.
Beautiful flowers, shaking their silvery bells, were banked in rich
profusion on each side of the great staircase. Indeed, what with the
passing of many feet and the great draught, the bells tinkled so
loudly you could hardly hear yourself speak.
The Emperor sat on a jewelled throne in the centre of the great hall,
and close beside him stood a golden perch for the Nightingale. All
the courtiers were assembled, and the little scullery-maid, now raised
to the rank of a real Court cook, had received permission to listen
behind the door. Everyone stood dressed in his very best and gazed on
the little gray bird, to whom the mighty Emperor had just nodded his
head.
Then the Nightingale began to sing, and sang so gloriously that the
Emperor's eyes so filled with tears that they overflowed and ran down
his cheeks. And the bird sang on and on, till it reached one's very
heart. The Emperor was so delighted that he said the Nightingale
should wear his own golden slipper around its neck. But the
Nightingale thanked him very politely and said it had already received
sufficient reward.
"For," it said, "I have caused the Emperor's eyes to fill with tears,
and an Emperor's tears have a mighty power. Heaven knows I have been
sufficiently repaid." And again it burst into its beautiful song.
"Oh, what charming coquetry!" said the Court ladies, and each tried to
keep their mouths full of water so that they might gurgle like the
Nightingale when they spoke to anyone. Even the footmen and the
ladies' maids expressed their perfect satisfaction, and that was a
great deal, for they are generally the hardest to please. In short,
the Nightingale had scored a great success.
It was so arranged that in future it should live at Court, in its own
cage, with permission to fly out twice a day, and once during the
night.
On these trips it was accompanied by twelve servants, each of whom
held a silken cord attached to its leg, so that really there could not
be the slightest pleasure for it in such a flight. As for the city,
wherever you went, you met people talking of the wonderful bird. One
had only to say the word "Nightin" when the other would answer "gale,"
and each would give a sigh and feel they perfectly understood each
other. Eleven babies belonging to poor people were christened after
the bird, and yet not one of them could sing a note.
One day a parcel arrived at the palace, addressed to the Emperor, with
the words, "The Nightingale," written on the outside.
"Oh, this must be a fresh book about our famous bird," said the
Emperor.
But it was not a book. A wonderful work of art lay within a casket, a
clockwork nightingale, encrusted in diamonds and rubies and pearls,
and fashioned in the shape of a real bird. When it had been wound up
it sang one of the same songs that the real nightingale sang, and its
glittering tail moved up and down in time to the notes. A ribbon hung
around its neck, and on it these words were written: "The Emperor of
Japan's Nightingale is nothing compared to that of the Emperor of
China."
"How perfect!" everyone cried, and the Emperor immediately bestowed
the title of the King's-Imperial-Nightingale-Bringer on the courier
who had brought the bird.
"Now we must hear them sing a duet together. How beautiful it will
sound!" they all said. But it did not sound so well as they had
expected, for the real bird sang in a natural way, and just whatever
came into its little throat, and the artificial bird could only sing
waltzes.
"The new one sings quite correctly," said the chief Court musician.
"It keeps perfect time, and understands my own method, I can hear." So
then the new one had to sing by itself and obtained quite as much
applause as the real one had done. Besides, it looked so much
handsomer; glittering and glistening like bracelets and breast-pins.
Over and over again, for quite thirty-three times, it sang the same
tune and yet was not tired. The courtiers would have liked to hear it
again even, only the Emperor said "No, it's the real bird's turn now,
let us ask it to sing."
But where was the Nightingale? Not a soul had seen it fly out of the
open window back to its own green woods.
"Well, well! whatever has become of it?" exclaimed the Emperor. And
all the courtiers united in saying it was a most ungrateful creature.
"After all," they said, "we still have the better bird," and with that
the new one had to sing his song for the thirty-fourth time, and even
then the courtiers had not caught the tune quite correctly, for it was
very difficult and tricky. The Court musician, especially, praised
the bird, and said, not only was its plumage much more handsome, but
its inside was better made, too.
"For your Imperial Highness, and you, my noble lords and ladies, must
see," he went on, "that with a real Nightingale you can never tell
what is coming next, but with an imitation one everything is settled.
One can open it and see exactly how it works, where the waltz comes
from, and why the notes follow one after the other."
The courtiers all agreed with the Court musician, and the Emperor
commanded him to show it to the people on the following Saturday, and
let them hear it sing. This he did, and the Chinese people felt so
pleased and happy they all nodded their heads and shook their
forefingers and said "Ah!" Only the fishermen, who had heard the real
bird sing, shook their heads and said it all sounded very nice, and
very much alike, too; but somehow--they didn't quite know
how--something seemed lacking.
And so the real Nightingale was sent into exile, and the imitation one
slept on a satin cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the jewels
and precious stones that had been showered on it as presents were
arranged around the edge of the cushion, and it was given the title of
the Emperor's Own Court Singer and advanced to the very highest rank,
that of First on the Left; for the left was thought to be the highest
station, as the Emperor wore his heart on that side, just like
ordinary people.
The Court musician wrote twenty-five volumes on the imitation bird.
The work was very tedious and dull, and full of the longest Chinese
words you can imagine; and people always said they had read it and
pretended to have enjoyed it, or else they would have been thought
stupid and have had their bodies trampled upon.
A whole year passed by in this fashion, and at last the Emperor and
his Court and all the Chinese people knew every turn and trill of the
Nightingale's song by heart, and this pleased them more than ever.
They often sang with it, and the street-urchins, even, could sing
"Tchoochoohuh juggjugg jugg," and the Emperor just the same. It was
really delightful.
One evening the Emperor lay in his bed listening to the bird which was
singing its very best. Suddenly it stopped with a jerk, and bang!
something had snapped in its inside, and all its wheels ran down with
a whirr, and then there was a dead silence.
The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court physician, but he
could do nothing. Then a watchmaker was fetched in, and after he had
talked a lot, and poked and examined the inside a great deal, he
managed to put it in something like working order again.
"You must not use it too much," he said, "it is nearly worn out, and
one can never put in fresh works again and be sure of the music being
as good as before."
At this there was great mourning all over the country, for the
imitation bird must only be allowed to sing once a year in future, and
even that might prove too much for it.
And when these performances were given the Court musician made a short
speech, full of very long words, proving that it sang as beautifully
as ever, and so the Court thought it did and were very well content.
After five years had passed the Emperor fell very ill. All the people
felt sad, for they were really extremely fond of him, and now it was
said he could not possibly live. Already the new Emperor was selected,
and the people stood about in the streets and begged to know from the
Chamberlain how the old Emperor was.
But "Paugh!" was all he would say as he nodded his head.
White and cold the old Emperor lay in his great tall bed, and all the
courtiers thought he was dead, and ran away to greet their new King.
In the antechamber the pages gossiped with the maids-in-waiting as
they ate a splendid tea. The palace was wrapped in silence, for
carpets had been laid down in the hall and corridor, so that the noise
of footsteps might be deadened. It was very, very still and solemn.
And the Emperor, still alive, lay all cold and pale on the magnificent
bed, with its heavy velvet draperies and gorgeous golden tassels.
High up, through the open window, the moon shone in upon him and the
imitation nightingale lying in its casket by the bed.
The poor old Emperor lay panting for breath; a terrible weight seemed
pressing on his chest, and he opened his eyes at last to see Death
sitting there, with the Emperor's crown upon his head and his sword
and jewelled sceptre in his hands.
The Emperor's gaze travelled round, and he saw faces--some ugly and
some smiling and gentle--peeping at him from among the velvet folds of
the curtains; these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds looking down
at him as Death pressed on his heart.
"Don't you remember this?" and "Can you recall that?" they all seemed
to be whispering. And the cold sweat broke out on the Emperor's brow,
at the recollections they brought to his mind.
"I do not remember--I cannot!" gasped the Emperor, then cried, "Music!
music! Bring the great Chinese drum, that I may not hear what they
say."
But still they whispered together, and Death nodded his head, like a
Chinese mandarin, at all they said.
"Music, music, I say!" shrieked the old Emperor. "Oh precious jewelled
bird, sing! I heaped upon you gold and precious stones, and even hung
my golden slippers around your neck. Ah, heavens! sing! I say, sing!"
But the imitation bird was still and silent, for until someone wound
it up, it could not sing, and there was no one by to do it. And Death
still sat gazing at him with hollow, hungry eyes, and all around was
terribly still.
Suddenly a silvery note floated in at the open window. It was the
voice of the real Nightingale as it sat upon a bough outside. It had
heard the Emperor was ill, and had come back to comfort him and fill
him with hope.
And as its song gained strength and rose and fell in delicious trills,
the ghostly faces faded away and the warm life blood began to flow
anew in the Emperor's veins. Even Death raised his head and said, "Go
on, go on, little Nightingale."
"Ah, but you will give me the Emperor's royal crown and his sword and
jewelled sceptre, if I do?" asked the bird.
And Death exchanged each of these treasures for a song, and the
Nightingale went on singing--of a peaceful churchyard, heavy with the
scent of roses and elder blossom, where the grass lay thick with the
dew of many tears shed by mortals over dear ones lying sleeping there.
Then Death was filled with a yearning to be in his own garden, and
passed like a gray mist out of the open window.
"Deep, deep thanks I give you," said the Emperor. "Merciful little
bird! I know you again. It was you I banished from my presence and my
kingdom. And yet, you have charmed the evil spectres from my bed and
Death from my heart. How can I ever repay you?"
"I am already rewarded in that I drew tears from your eyes when first
I sang to you. Those tears were jewels to crown the heart of any
singer, and I shall never forget them. I will sing you to sleep now, a
sleep from which you will awake fresh and strong again."
And the Emperor fell into a sweet, refreshing slumber, so deep and
peaceful that he awoke strong and well in the warm sunlight. None of
the courtiers were by him, for all believed he was dead, only the
Nightingale was still singing a gentle, sweet song.
"You must never leave me," the Emperor said; "you shall only sing when
you desire, and I will break the artificial bird into a million
pieces."
"No, spare it," said the Nightingale. "It did its best as long as it
was able, so keep it as before. I cannot build my nest within the
castle, but I will often come to you at evening and sing, on the bough
outside the window, songs that will make you glad, and at the same
time sweetly melancholy. I will sing of happiness and sorrow, of the
goodness and wickedness that lie close around you. The singing bird
loves the fisherman's hut, the peasant's cot, and all that is far
removed from palace and court. But I love your soul more than your
crown. I will fly to you and sing my songs, but you must promise me
one thing."
The Emperor stood in his royal robes, which he had put on with his own
hands, and he pressed his sword-hilt to his breast as he said:
"Anything that I can, I will grant."
"I only ask of you this one thing. Do not let anyone know that you
have a little bird that tells you all; it will be for the best."
So saying the Nightingale flew away.
Then the servants entered to attend to their dead Emperor, and when
they saw him standing there strong and well, they started back aghast.
But the Emperor only said:
"Good morning!"
_Hookedy-Crookedy_
Once on a time there was a King and Queen in Ireland, and they had one
son named Jack, and when Jack grew up to be man big, he rose up one
day and said to his father and mother that he would go off and push
his fortune.
All his father and mother could say to Jack, they could not keep him
from going. So with his staff in his hand and his father's and
mother's blessing on his head, off he started, and he travelled away
far, farther than I could tell you, and twice as far as you could tell
me. At length one day, coming up to a big wood, he met a gray-haired
old man. The old man asked him, "Jack, where are you going?"
He says, "I am going to push my fortune."
"Well," says the old man, says he, "If 't is looking for service you
are, there is a Giant who lives at the other side of that wood that
they call the Giant of the Hundred Hills, and I believe he wants a
fine strong, able, clever young fellow like you."
"Very well," says Jack, "I will push on to him."
Push on Jack did, away through the wood, until he got to the other
side, and then he saw a big castle, and going up he knocked at the
door, and a big Giant came out.
"Welcome, Jack," says he, "the King of Ireland's Son! Where are you
going and what do you want?"
"I come," says Jack, "to push my fortune, and am looking for honest
service. I have been told," he says to the Giant of the Hundred Hills,
"that you wanted a clean, clever boy like me."
"Well," says the Giant, "I am the Giant of the Hundred Hills, and do
want such a fine fellow as you. I have to go away every day," he says,
"to battle with another giant at the other end of the world, and when
I am away I want somebody to look after my house and place. If you
will be of good, faithful service to me, and do everything I tell you,
I will give you a bag of gold at the end of the time." Jack promised
he would do all that. The Giant then gave him a hearty supper and a
good bed, and well he slept that night. In the morning the Giant had
him called up before the first lark was in the sky.
"Jack, my brave boy," says he, "I have got to be off to the other end
of the world to-day to fight the Giant of the Four Winds, and it is
time you were up and looking after your business. You have got to put
this house in order, and look after everything in it until I come back
to-night. To every room in the house and to every place about the
house you can go, except the stable. My stable door is closed, and on
the peril of your life, don't open it or go into the stable. Keep that
in mind."
Jack said he certainly would. Then the Giant visited the stable, and
started off; and as soon as he was gone, Jack went fixing and
arranging the house and setting everything in order. And a wonderful
house it was to Jack, so big and so great; and after that he went to
the castle yard and into every house and building there, except the
stable: and when he had visited all the rest of them, he stood before
the stable and looked at it a long time. "And I wonder," says Jack,
says he, "I wonder what can be in there, and what is the reason he
wants me on the peril of my life not to go into it? I would like to go
and peep in, and there certainly would be no harm."
Every door in and about the Giant's place was opened by a little ring
turning on a pivot in the middle of the door. Forward to the stable
door Jack then steps, turns the little ring, and the door flew open.
Inside what does Jack see but a mare and a bear standing by the
manger, and neither of them eating. There was hay before the bear and
meat before the mare.
"Well," says Jack, "it is no wonder, poor creatures, you are not
eatin'. That was a nice blunder of the Giant," and he stepped in and
changed their food, putting hay before the mare and meat before the
bear, and at once both of them fell to it and Jack went out and closed
the stable door. As he did so his finger stuck in the ring, and he
pulled and struggled to get it away, but he could not.
That was a fix for poor Jack, "And by this and by that," says he, "the
Giant will be back and find me stuck here;" so he whips out his knife,
and cuts off his finger, and leaves it there.
And when the Giant came home that night, says he to Jack, "Well, Jack,
what sort of a day have you had this day, and how did you get along?"
"I had a fine day," says Jack, "and got along very well indeed."