must be the beautiful—tweet—only this is larger than a peacock.” She remembered what her mother had told them in her childhood, that the peacock was one of the greatest examples of the beautiful. She flew down into the courtyard, where everything also was very grand. The walls were painted to represent palm branches, and in the midst of the court stood a large, blooming rose tree, spreading its young, sweet, rose-covered branches over a grave. Thither the maiden sparrow flew, for she saw many others of her own kind.
“Tweet,” said she, drawing back her foot three times. She had, during the years that had passed, often made the usual greeting to the sparrows she met, but without receiving any acknowledgment, for friends who are once separated do not meet every day. This manner of greeting was becoming a habit to her, and to-day two old sparrows and a young one returned the greeting,
“Tweet,” they replied, and drew back the left foot three times. They were two old sparrows out of the nest, and a young one belonging to the family. “Ah, good-day; how do you do? To think of our meeting here! This is a very grand place, but there is not much to eat; this is the beautiful. Tweet.”
A great many people now came out of the side rooms, in which the marble statues stood, and approached the grave where slept the remains of the great master who had carved these marble statues. Each face had a reflected glory as they stood round Thorwalsden’s grave, and some few gathered up the fallen rose-leaves to preserve them. They had all come from afar. One from mighty England, others fom Germany and France. One very handsome lady plucked a rose, and concealed it in her bosom. Then the sparrows thought that the roses ruled in this place, and that the whole house had been built for them, which seemed really too much honour; but as all the people showed their love for the roses, the sparrows thought they would not remain behind-hand in paying their respects. “Tweet,” they said, and swept the ground with their tails, and glanced with one eye at the roses. They had not looked at them very long, however, before they felt convinced that they were old acquaintances, and so they actually were. The artist who had sketched the rose-bush and the ruins of the cottage, had since then received permission to transplant it, and had given it to the architect, for more beautiful roses had never been seen. The architect had planted it on the grave of Thorwalsden, where it continued to bloom, the image of the beautiful, scattering its fragrant rosy leaves to be gathered and carried away into distant lands in memory of the spot on which they fell.
“Have you obtained a situation in town?” then asked the sparrows of the roses.
The roses nodded; they recognised their little brown neighbours, and were rejoiced to see them again.
“It is very delightful,” said the roses, “to live here and to blossom, to meet old friends, and to see cheerful faces every day. It is as if each day were a holiday.”
