of love! Why was it entrusted with
singing at night when every other bird is sitting on its nest, and
hiding its head under its wing. Who had sent it, saying, "Rise and
announce that love is always waking?"

Who had entrusted it to awake the sleepers?

Why, even the popular song says:

"Sleep is better far than love
For sleep is tranquillity;
Love is anguish of the heart."

Fly away, bird of song!

Czipra tried to sleep again. The bird's song did not allow her.

She rose, leaned upon her elbows and continued to listen.

And there came back to her mind that old gypsy woman's enchantment,--the
enchantment of love.

"At midnight--the nightingale ... barefooted--... plant it in a
flower-pot ... before it droops, thy lover will return, and will never
leave thee."

Ah! who would walk in the open at night?

The nightingale continued:

"Go out bare-footed and tear down the branch."

No, no. How ridiculous it would be! If somebody should see her, and tell
others, they would laugh at her for her pains.

The nightingale began its song anew.

Malicious bird, that will not allow sleep!

Yet how easy it would be to try: a little branch in a flower-pot. Who
could know what it was? A girl's innocent jest, with which she does harm
to no one. Love's childish enchantment.

It would be easy to attempt it.

And if it were true? If there were something in it? How often people
say, "this or that woman has given her husband something to make him
love her so truly, and not even see her faults?" If it were true?

How often people wondered, how two people could love each other? With
what did they enchant each other? If it were true?

Suppose there were spirits that could be captured with a talisman, which
would do all one bade them?

Czipra involuntarily shuddered: she did not know why, but her whole body
trembled and shivered.

"No, not so," she said to herself. "If he does not give heart for
heart,--mine must not deceive him. If he cannot love me because I
deserve it, he must not love me for my spells. If he does not love, he
must not despise me. Away, bird of song, I do not want thee."

Then she drew the coverlet over her head and turned to the wall. But
sleep did not return again: the trembling did not pass: and the singing
bird in the bushes did not hold his peace.

It had come right under the window; it sang, "Come, come."

Sometimes it seemed as if the song of the nightingale contained the
word