“Bring back the linnet.”
The linnet trilled forth her jubilant music. In the midst of it the king
was about to uplift his scepter in sign of choice, but checked himself
and said:--
“But let us be sure. Bring back the thrush; let them sing together.”
The thrush was brought, and the two birds poured out their marvels of
song together. The king wavered, then his inclination began to settle
and strengthen--one could see it in his countenance. Hope budded in the
hearts of the old ministers, their pulses began to beat quicker, the
scepter began to rise slowly, when: There was a hideous interruption! It
was a sound like this--just at the door:
“Waw... he! waw... he! waw-he!-waw he!-waw-he!”
Everybody was sorely startled--and enraged at himself for showing it.
The next instant the dearest, sweetest, prettiest little peasant-maid
of nine years came tripping in, her brown eyes glowing with childish
eagerness; but when she saw that august company and those angry faces
she stopped and hung her head and put her poor coarse apron to her
eyes. Nobody gave her welcome, none pitied her. Presently she looked up
timidly through her tears, and said:--
“My lord the king, I pray you pardon me, for I meant no wrong. I have no
father and no mother, but I have a goat and a donkey, and they are all
in all to me. My goat gives me the sweetest milk, and when my dear good
donkey brays it seems to me there is no music like to it. So when my
lord the king's jester said the sweetest singer among all the animals
should save the crown and nation, and moved me to bring him here--”
All the court burst into a rude laugh, and the child fled away crying,
without trying to finish her speech. The chief minister gave a private
order that she and her disastrous donkey be flogged beyond the precincts
of the palace and commanded to come within them no more.
Then the trial of the birds was resumed. The two birds sang their best,
but the scepter lay motionless in the king's hand. Hope died slowly out
in the breasts of all. An hour went by; two hours, still no decision.
The day waned to its close, and the waiting multitudes outside the
palace grew crazed with anxiety and apprehension. The twilight came
on, the shadows fell deeper and deeper. The king and his court could no
longer see each other's faces. No one spoke--none called for lights. The
great trial had been made; it had failed; each and all wished to hide
their faces from the light and cover up their deep trouble in their own
hearts.
Finally-hark! A rich, full strain of the divinest melody streamed forth
from a remote part of the hall--the nightingale's voice!
“Up!” shouted the king, “let all the bells make proclamation to the
people, for the choice is made and we have not erred. King, dynasty,
and nation are saved. From henceforth let the nightingale be honored
throughout the land forever. And publish it among all the people that
whosoever shall insult a nightingale, or injure it, shall suffer death.
The king hath spoken.”
All that little world was drunk with joy. The castle and the city blazed
with bonfires all night long, the people danced and drank and sang; and
the triumphant clamor of the bells never ceased.
From that day the nightingale was a sacred bird. Its song was heard in
every house; the poets wrote its praises; the painters painted it; its
sculptured image adorned every arch and turret and fountain and public
building. It was even taken into the king's councils; and no grave
matter of state was decided until the soothsayers had laid the thing
before the state nightingale and translated to the ministry what it was
that the bird had sung about it.