LITMIR.BIZ

      “Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”

      But the Tree shook its head.

      “My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the flowers on the field. But go to my brother who grows near the Student’s window, and maybe he will give you what you want.”

      So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing near the Student’s window.

      “Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”

      But the Tree shook its head.

      “My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the coral. But the storm has broken my branches, and I will have no roses at all this year.”

      “One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?”

      “There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I can’t tell it to you.”

      “Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”

      “If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must create it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart. Your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”

      “I will die to pay a price for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “I love Life. I love sitting in the green wood, and to watch the Sun and the Moon. But Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to[31] the heart of a man?”

      So she spread her wings and flew to the Student.

      The young Student was still lying on the grass and crying.

      “Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy! You will have your red rose. I will create it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you is that you will be a true lover. Love is wiser than Philosophy.”

      The Student looked up, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him. He only knew the things from the books.

      The Oak-tree understood, and felt sad. He loved the little Nightingale.

      “Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I will feel very lonely when you are gone.”

      So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was wonderful.

      “She sings well,” the Student said to himself, “but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. She thinks only about music, she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity[32] it is that they do not mean anything.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his little bed, and began to think of his love. After a time, he fell asleep.

      When the Nightingale saw the Moon in the sky, she flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her heart against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast.

      She sang first about love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And there came a wonderful rose on the top of the Rose-tree. The rose was pale.

      The Tree cried to the Nightingale, “Press closer, little Nightingale or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”

      So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and sang louder and louder. She sang about love in the soul of a man and a woman.

      The rose was now pink, like the lips of a girl.

      And the Tree cried to the Nightingale, “Press closer, little Nightingale, or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”

      So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart. She was in pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song about Love and Death.

      And the wonderful rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. But the Nightingale’s voice grew weaker, and her little wings began to beat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The red rose heard it, and opened its petals to the cold morning air.

      “Look, look!” cried

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