that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by him who
inhaled its fragrance.

And furthermore, the Prince had a nightingale, who could sing in such a
manner that it seemed as though all sweet melodies dwelt in her little
throat. So the Princess was to have the rose, and the nightingale; and
they were accordingly put into large silver caskets, and sent to her.

The Emperor had them brought into a large hall, where the Princess was
playing at "Visiting," with the ladies of the court; and when she saw
the caskets with the presents, she clapped her hands for joy.

"Ah, if it were but a little pussy-cat!" said she; but the rose tree,
with its beautiful rose came to view.

"Oh, how prettily it is made!" said all the court ladies.

"It is more than pretty," said the Emperor, "it is charming!"

But the Princess touched it, and was almost ready to cry.

"Fie, papa!" said she. "It is not made at all, it is natural!"

"Let us see what is in the other casket, before we get into a bad
humor," said the Emperor. So the nightingale came forth and sang so
delightfully that at first no one could say anything ill-humored of her.

"Superbe! Charmant!" exclaimed the ladies; for they all used to chatter
French, each one worse than her neighbor.

"How much the bird reminds me of the musical box that belonged to our
blessed Empress," said an old knight. "Oh yes! These are the same tones,
the same execution."

"Yes! yes!" said the Emperor, and he wept like a child at the
remembrance.

"I will still hope that it is not a real bird," said the Princess.

"Yes, it is a real bird," said those who had brought it. "Well then let
the bird fly," said the Princess; and she positively refused to see the
Prince.

However, he was not to be discouraged; he daubed his face over brown and
black; pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door.

"Good day to my lord, the Emperor!" said he. "Can I have employment at
the palace?"

"Why, yes," said the Emperor. "I want some one to take care of the pigs,
for we have a great many of them."

So the Prince was appointed "Imperial Swineherd." He had a dirty little
room close by the pigsty; and there he sat the whole day, and worked. By
the evening he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot. Little bells were
hung all round it; and when the pot was boiling, these bells tinkled in
the most charming manner, and played the old melody,

"Ach! du lieber Augustin,
Alles ist weg, weg, weg!"*