THE NIGHTINGALE
AFTER A FAIRY TALE BY
HANS ANDERSEN
There was no more beautiful thing in the world than the palace of the emperor of China. It was built of the very finest porcelain, delicate and fragile as an egg-shell. The people, high and low, who dwelt in that palace moved with the utmost grace and care lest they should break anything, and in this they had more admiration for the extreme beauty of the place than fear of being trampled upon by the emperor for any damage caused by clumsiness. The palace garden was so big that not even the head gardener could tell you where it ended. It contained the most wonderful flowers; every here and there among the glorious blooms was one more rare than its neighbours; and, as if to attract your attention to its splendour, each had attached to it a little silver bell which tinkled melodiously in the hands of every passing zephyr. Miles and miles and miles of beautiful trees and flowers, with smooth lawns and sparkling fountains; and always, if you wished, you could turn off into a delightful wood which skirted the garden and led down a gentle slope to the sea, where, on the brink, the trees were so high and spreading, and the blue water beneath so suddenly deep and still, that great ships could shelter there in the shade. And in this wonderful wood lived a Nightingale which sang so deliciously that all who heard it stood rooted to the spot. Never had such music been heard before in any wood in the world. Even the poor fisherman, busy with his nets in the bay, would pause in his work to listen. 'Heavens, how beautiful that song is!' he would say; and, night after night, when the bird sang he would forget his toil to murmur, 'How beautiful! how beautiful!'
29
