its own way. Three
and thirty times over did it sing the same waltz, and yet was not
tired. The Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to be shown
this wonder.

But where was it?

None had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window, and
back to the greenwood.

"What does it matter? We have the best bird after all," every one
said. And the artificial bird was made to sing again and again until
every one knew its tunes by heart. They liked to look at it, shining
like bracelets and breastpins. The real Nightingale was banished from
the empire. The artificial bird had its place on a silk cushion close
to the Emperor's bed.

All the presents it received, gold and precious stones, were ranged
about it. It had a title, High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer. It was
certainly famous.

So a whole year went by, and then five years. The Emperor was ill and
could not, it was said, live much longer. He lay on his gorgeous bed
with long velvet cushions and heavy gold tassels. High up a window
stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial
bird.

The Emperor could scarcely breathe. It was just as if something lay
upon his heart. He opened his eyes and then he saw that it was Death
who sat upon his heart, and had put on his golden crown and held the
Emperor's sword. And all around, from among the folds of the splendid
curtains, strange heads peered forth, some ugly, and some quite lovely
and mild. They were the Emperor's bad and good deeds that stood before
him, now that Death sat upon his heart.

"Music! Music!" cried the Emperor, "so that I need not hear what they
say! You little precious golden bird, sing, sing!"

But the bird stood still. It was worn out inside, and there was no
music left in it. And Death sat and looked at the Emperor, and it was
fearfully quiet.

Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It
was the little live Nightingale that sat outside on a spray. It had
heard of the Emperor's sad plight and had come to sing to him of
comfort and hope. And as it sang the blood ran quicker and more
quickly through the Emperor's heart; and even Death listened.

The Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet churchyard
where white roses grow, and the elder-blossom smells sweet, and the
grass is green. Then Death felt a great longing to see his garden and
he floated out at the window in a white mist, and with him went the
spectres.

"Thanks!