The rose-bush in the garden is beautiful. But the naughty thorns which
often pricked your fingers till they bled, when you wanted to pick a
bud! “The horrid rose-bush!” I suppose you said, and perhaps even
struck at it with a stick. Don’t say that, little girl. When you know
why the rose-bush is covered with thorns from top to bottom, you will
see that it is not horrid, but very good.
Do you remember how the nightingale sung during the May nights, when
the moon was shining brightly, and the roses were so sweet, and the
little glow-worms glittered in the grass? It sounded like a loud wail,
often almost like sobbing, so that you felt very sorrowful, and asked
us, “What is the matter with the little nightingale, that she sings so
mournfully?”
Now I will tell you, as the evening will be long and we have plenty of
time.
There was once a nightingale, the grandmamma of all the nightingales in
the country. She came from a hot province in Africa, because it was too
warm for her there, and she wanted to live here, where it is cool and
shady. She looked about in the woods and meadows, and in the great
gardens behind the houses, to find a tree or bush where she could build
her nest. All the trees were very kind, offered her a branch or a twig,
and promised that she should be well taken care of with them. Every one
would have been glad to have her for a guest, for she had sung merrily
as she flew around, so that they all admired her beautiful voice and
never wearied of listening to it.
The nightingale searched long and carefully, perched sometimes on one
tree, sometimes on another, found one thing here, and something else
there, which did not exactly suit her, and finally decided upon the
rose-bush. It was not too high and it was not too low, its foliage was
neither too thick nor too thin, no one lived there except a few neat
and quiet golden beetles, and, above all, it was wonderfully adorned
with its roses and completely surrounded by the most delicious
fragrance. At that time it had no thorns. Its stem was perfectly
smooth, so that you could have passed your hand up and down over it
without scratching yourself in the least.
The nightingale was very much pleased with her choice, and, in her joy
at having found such a beautiful, suitable dwelling, sang and trilled
so clearly that all the buds on the rose-bush opened from delight, and
it was covered in a single night with magnificent full-blown roses.
The nightingale at once began to build her nest, a beautiful little,
round nest, under a shady roof of light-green leaves, with big, pale
pink roses in front of the little windows, and, after it was well lined
with grass and soft down, she laid several tiny eggs, and brooded over
them until the nightingale children were hatched out,—dear little soft
things, with black eyes and yellow-gray rough little heads, and yellow
beaks, which were always open and always wanted to eat.
Mamma Nightingale was so happy that she hardly knew what to do with
herself, and nursed and fed her little ones—there were three of
them—and sang the sweetest lullabies. The neighbor birds came flying
from far and near, perched on the branches of the trees, listened to
the young mother’s singing, and flapped their wings,—that’s the way the
birds clap applause, because they haven’t any hands.
But the rose-bush stood near a house where a gray cat lived,—an ugly
creature with green eyes, a long, bristling mustache, and big sharp
claws. This cat was on bad terms with everybody on account of her
stealing and evil tricks. She dared not be seen in the day, because the
dogs would have chased her, and the washerwomen would have thrown hot
water on her. She always stayed in a dark cellar, and came out only at
night to do all sorts of mischief.
The wicked cat heard the nightingale singing and was angry, as wicked
people always are when they hear or see anything beautiful. The
squealing of the mice, before whose holes she watched for hours, seemed
to her much more musical than the joyous trilling and sweet lullabies
of the bird-mother. Stealing out of her dark cellar, she crept through
the grass and under the bushes to a place from which she could see the
rose-bush, looked up with her green eyes, and when she discovered the
nest and the three little birds with their busy mother, she said to
herself: “Oh! that rabble! Those miserable vagabonds! Screaming and
making a racket as if they were the only people in the world. Just
wait; I’ll teach you to wake respectable folks out of their afternoon
nap.” Waving the end of her tail to and fro, she crept back again to
her cellar and waited until it grew dark. Then she came out, walked
slowly and noiselessly to the rose-bush, and peered up at it.
The nightingale had just flown away for a short time, as was her
custom, to bring her little ones their supper, that is, a few soft
caterpillars, and little moths which only fly about after sunset.
Meanwhile the nightingale children were left alone, twittering happily
to one another, and rejoicing that mamma would soon come back with
something good to eat.
Suddenly over the edge of the nest appeared a terrible head, with
fierce green eyes and a frightful mustache. It was the wicked cat,
which, like a true thief, had climbed up the smooth stem of the
rose-bush, and now fell upon the poor defenceless brood. The little
downy birds were so frightened that they did not even find strength to
utter a feeble cry for help. At least their mortal terror did not last
long. Before one could count three, the wicked cat had seized the three
sisters by the neck, one after another, and killed them with a single
bite. She threw their little warm bodies out of the nest with her paws,
and then leaped after them, to eat them at the foot of the rose-bush.
Only a few crows in a neighboring linden tree had witnessed the murder.
It had been done so quickly that they could not prevent it. But now
they rushed with loud cries upon the murderess, and pecked her so
furiously with their beaks, that she left the little dead nightingales
lying on the ground and ran back to her cellar, where the crows could
not follow her.
Meantime the nightingale came back with her beak full, and put her head
through the roof of rose-leaves above her nest. She saw with terror
that it was empty. Dropping the worms and moths, she called so that her
voice echoed a long distance through the evening air: “My children!
Where are you? My children!”
The crows flew up sorrowfully, surrounded her, and told her as gently
as they could what a misfortune had befallen her. Her little heart
almost broke with despair. She let the crows take her to her children,
and covering them with her wings, mourned over them, and would not
leave them, until the beetles which are called grave-diggers carried
them to the grave. It was a beautiful funeral procession; all the ants,
many beetles, and most of the birds in the neighborhood followed in the
train, all mourning and lamenting. But this did not console the poor
mother, and when, after the burial, she sat alone in her deserted nest,
she sobbed aloud and asked the rose-bush in a half-stifled voice,
“Rose-bush, O Rose-bush, why did you allow it, why did you not guard my
little ones better?”
The rose-bush said nothing, but it was so troubled that all the petals
fell from its blossoms, and it thought and planned how in the future it
could better protect the beloved guest and her family. And then it had
a bright idea. All night long it worked softly, but busily, and when
day came, it was set from top to bottom with thorns, as sharp and
pointed and crooked as the claws of the wicked cat, and it said in a
soothing voice to the grieving nightingale: “Cheer up, dear, lovely
nightingale, lay more eggs, brood over them again, no harm will befall
them: you see, no wicked cat can attack your little ones. My thorns
will protect them and you.” The nightingale could not bear her
solitude. She laid more eggs, brooded over them, and when again several
sweet little round creatures in gray down filled her nest, she began to
sing once more, but the song was a different one. No joyous trilling,
no gay melodies, but the mournful, sobbing tones, which almost always
move you to tears. She cannot forget her first little ones, and she
still remembers them with sweet sadness, though she is very happy with
her new darlings.
Since that time the rose-bush has had thorns, and the nightingale sings
her mournful lament, but at least the cats cannot attack her nest when
she flies away for a little while, to get caterpillars and night-moths
for her babies.