'Well--there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!'
'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!'
'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of
course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but
half-born--humourists always prefer to deliver themselves--so I shook my
head.
'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of
her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey' and
'Stupid,'--which I recognised and meekly bore.
'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But
don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no
nightingales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is
always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the
nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.'
'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx.
'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses--but ...
but....'
'But what?'
'But--well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.'
'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I
cannot bear them.'
'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is
worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns.
It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly
understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that
is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose--of that you may
be sure....'
'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject.
'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.'