r little Ant had
fixed her dwelling at the root of this same bush, and managed as best
she could to store her wretched hut of care with winter provision. Day
and night was the Nightingale fluttering round the rose-bower, and
tuning the barbut[13] of his soul-deluding melody; indeed, whilst the
Ant was night and day industriously occupied, the thousand-songed bird
seemed fascinated with his own sweet voice, echoing amidst the trees.
The Nightingale was whispering his secret to the Rose,[14] and that,
full-blown by the zephyr of the dawn, would ogle him in return. The poor
Ant could not help admiring the coquettish airs of the Rose, and the gay
blandishments of the Nightingale, and incontinently remarking: "Time
alone can disclose what may be the end of this frivolity and talk!"
After the flowery season of summer was gone, and the black time of
winter was come, thorns took the station of the Rose, and the raven the
perch of the Nightingale. The storms of autumn raged in fury, and the
foliage of the grove was shed upon the ground. The cheek of the leaf was
turned yellow, and the breath of the wind was chill and blasting. The
gathering cloud poured down hailstones, like pearls, and flakes of snow
floated like camphor on the bosom of the air. Suddenly the Nightingale
returned into the garden, but he met neither the bloom of the Rose nor
fragrance of the spikenard; notwithstanding his thousand-songed tongue,
he stood stupified and mute, for he could discover no flower whose form
he might admire, nor any verdure whose freshness he might enjoy. The
Thorn turned round to him and said: "How long, silly bird, wouldst thou
be courting the society of the Rose? Now is the season that in the
absence of thy charmer thou must put up with the heart-rending bramble
of separation." The Nightingale cast his eye upon the scene around him,
but saw nothing fit to eat. Destitute of food, his strength and
fortitude failed him, and in his abject helplessness he was unable to
earn himself a little livelihood. He called to his mind and said:
"Surely the Ant had in former days his dwelling underneath this tree,
and was busy in hoarding a store of provision: now I will lay my wants
before her, and, in the name of good neighbourship, and with an appeal
to her generosity, beg some small relief. Peradventure she may pity my
distress and bestow her charity upon me." Like a poor suppliant, the
half-famished Nightingale presented himself at the Ant's door, a