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The Daisy
The Daisy
[See She Went To The Tulips: She went straight to the tulips, and cut off one
after another.]
Now you shall hear!
Out in the country, close by the road-side, there was a country -
house: you yourself have certainly once seen it. Before it is a little garden
with flowers, and a paling which is painted. Close by it, by the ditch, in the
midst of the most beautiful green grass, grew a little Daisy. The sun shone as
warmly and as brightly upon it as on the great splendid garden flowers, and so
it grew from hour to hour. One morning it stood in full bloom, with its little
shining white leaves spreading like rays round the little yellow sun in the
centre. It never thought that no man would notice it down in the grass, and
that it was a poor despised floweret; no, it was very merry, and turned to the
warm sun, looked up at it, and listened to the Lark caroling high in the air.
The little Daisy was as happy as if it were a great holiday, and yet it
was only a Monday. All the children were at school; and while they sat on
their benches learning, it sat on its little green stalk, and learned also
from the warm sun, and from all around, how good God is. And the Daisy was
very glad that everything that it silently felt was sung so loudly and
charmingly by the Lark. And the Daisy looked up with a kind of respect to the
happy bird who could sing and fly; but it was not at all sorrowful because it
could not fly and sing also.
"I can see and hear," it thought: "the sun shines on me, and the forest
kisses me. O, how richly have I been gifted!"
Within the palings stood many stiff, aristocratic flowers - the less
scent they had the more they flaunted. The peonies blew themselves out to be
greater than the roses, but size will not do it; the tulips had the most
splendid colors, and they knew that, and held themselves bolt upright, that
they might be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little Daisy outside
there, but the Daisy looked at them the more, and thought, "How rich and
beautiful they are! Yes, the pretty bird flies across to them and visits them.
I am glad that I stand so near them, for at any rate I can enjoy the sight of
their splendor!" And just as she thought that - "keevit!" - down came flying
the Lark, but not down to the peonies and tulips - no, down into the grass to
the lowly Daisy, which started so with joy that it did not know what to think.
The little bird danced round about it, and sang, -
"O, how soft the grass is! and see what a lovely little flower, with gold
in its heart and silver on its dress!"
For the yellow point in the Daisy looked like gold, and the little leaves
around it shone silvery white.
How happy was the little Daisy - no one can conceive how happy! The bird
kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up again into the blue air.
A quarter of an hour passed, at least, before the Daisy could recover itself.
Half ashamed, yet inwardly rejoiced, it looked at the other flowers in the
garden, for they had seen the honor and happiness it had gained, and must
understand what a joy it was. But the tulips stood up twice as stiff as
before, and they looked quite peaky in the face and quite red, for they had
been vexed. The peonies were quite wrong-headed: it was well they could not
speak, or the Daisy would have received a good scolding. The poor little
flower could see very well that they were not in a good humor, and that hurt
it sensibly. At this moment there came into the garden a girl with a great
sharp, shining knife; she went straight up to the tulips, and cut off one
after another of them.
"O!" sighed the little Daisy, "that is dreadful! Now it is all over with
them."
Then the girl went away with the tulips. The Daisy was glad to stand out
in the grass, and to be only a poor little flower; it felt very grateful; and
when the sun went down it folded its leaves and went to sleep, and dreamed all
night long about the sun and the pretty little bird.
The next morning, when the flower again happily stretched out all its
white leaves, like little arms, toward the air and the light, it recognized
the voice of the bird, but the song he was singing sounded mournful. Yes, the
poor Lark had good reason to be sad: he was caught, and now sat in a cage
close by the open window. He sang of free and happy roaming, sang of the young
green corn in the fields, and of the glorious journey he might make on his
wings high through the air. The poor Lark was not in good spirits, for there
he sat a prisoner in a cage.
The little Daisy wished very much to help him. But what was it to do?
Yes, that was difficult to make out. It quite forgot how everything was so
beautiful around, how warm the sun shone, and how splendidly white its own
leaves were. Ah! it could think only of the imprisoned bird, and how it was
powerless to do anything for him.
Just then two little boys come out of the garden. One of them carried in
his hand the knife which the girl had used to cut off the tulips. They went
straight up to the little Daisy, which could not at all make out what they
wanted.
"Here we may cut a capital piece of turf for the Lark," said one of the
boys; and he began to cut off a square patch round about the Daisy, so that
the flower remained standing in its piece of grass.
"Tear off the flower!" said the other boy.
And the Daisy trembled with fear, for to be torn off would be to lose its
life; and now it wanted particularly to live, as it was to be given with the
piece of turf to the captive Lark.
"No, let it stay," said the other boy; "it makes such a nice ornament."
And so it remained, and was put into the Lark`s cage. But the poor bird
complained aloud of his lost liberty, and beat his wings against the wires of
his prison; and the little Daisy could not speak - could say no consoling word
to him, gladly as it would have done so. And thus the whole morning passed.
"Here is no water," said the captive Lark. "They are all gone out, and
have forgotten to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and burning. It
is like fire and ice within me, and the air is so close. O, I must die! I must
leave the warm sunshine, the fresh green, and all the splendor that God has
created!"
And then he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a
little with it. Then the bird`s eye fell upon the Daisy, and he nodded to it,
and kissed it with his beak, and said, -
"You also must wither in here, poor little flower. They have given you to
me with the little patch of green grass on which you grow, instead of the
whole world which was mine out there! Every little blade of grass shall be a
great tree for me, and every one of your fragrant leaves a greater flower. Ah,
you only tell me how much I have lost!"
"If I could only comfort him!" thought the Daisy.
It could not stir a leaf; but the scent which streamed forth from its
delicate leaves was far stronger than is generally found in these flowers; the
bird also noticed that, and though he was fainting with thirst, and in his
pain plucked up the green blades of grass, he did not touch the flower.
The evening came on, and yet nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a
drop of water. Then he stretched out his pretty wings and beat the air
frantically with them; his song changed to a mournful piping, his little head
sank down toward the flower, and the bird`s heart broke with want and
yearning. Then the flower could not fold its leaves, as it had done on the
previous evening, and sleep; it drooped, sorrowful and sick, toward the earth.
Not till the next morn did the boys come; and when they found the bird
dead they wept - wept many tears - and dug him a neat grave, which they
adorned with leaves of flowers. The bird`s corpse was put into a pretty red
box, for he was to be royally buried - the poor bird! While he was alive and
sang they forgot him, and let him sit in his cage and suffer want; but now
that he was dead he had adornment and many tears.
But the patch of turf with the Daisy on it was thrown out into the high
road: no one thought of the flower that had felt the most for the little bird,
and would have been so glad to console him.
The Nightingale
In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has
about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but that`s just
why it`s worth while to hear the story, before it is forgotten. The Emperor`s
palace was the most splendid in the world; it was made entirely of porcelain,
very costly, but so delicate and brittle that one had to take care how one
touched it. In the garden were to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to
the costliest of them silver bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody
should pass by without noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor`s
garden was admirably arranged. And it extended so far, that the gardener
himself did not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into
a glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended straight
down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could sail to and fro
beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a nightingale, which
sang so splendidly that even the poor Fisherman, who had many other things to
do, stopped still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his
nets, and heard the Nightingale.
"How beautiful that is!" he said; but he was obliged to attend to his
property, and thus forgot the bird. But when in the next night the bird sang
again, and the Fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, "How beautiful that
is!"
From all the countries of the world travellers came to the city of the
Emperor and admired it, and the palace, and the garden, but when they heard
the Nightingale, they said, "That is the best of all!"
And the travellers told of it when they came home; and the learned men
wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they did not
forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and those who were
poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale in the wood by the
deep lake.
The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the
Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he
nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions of the
city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is the best of all!" -
it stood written there.
"What`s that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "I don`t know the Nightingale at
all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I`ve never
heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing for the first
time from books!"
And hereupon he called his Cavalier. This Cavalier was so grand that if
any one lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him any
question, he answered nothing but "P!" - and that meant nothing.
"There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale!" said
the Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why have I
never heard anything about it?"
"I have never heard him named," replied the Cavalier. "He has never been
introduced at court."
"I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me," said
the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it
myself!"
"I have never heard him mentioned," said the Cavalier, "I will seek for
him. I will find him."
But where was he to be found? The Cavalier ran up and down all the
staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he met
had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the Cavalier ran back to the Emperor,
and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of books.
"Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is
fiction, besides something that they call the black art."
"But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me by
the high and mighty Emperor of Japan, and therefore it cannot be a falsehood.
I will hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my imperial
favor; and if it does not come, all the court shall be trampled upon after the
court has supped!"
"Tsing-pe" said the Cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the
staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the court ran
with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon.
Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all
the world knew excepting the people at court.
At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said, -
"The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every
evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table.
She lives down by the strand, and when I get back and am tired, and rest in
the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the water comes into my
eyes, and it just as if my mother kissed me!"
"Little Kitchen Girl," said the Cavalier, "I will get you a place in the
kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will lead us to the
Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening."
So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed
to sing; half the court went forth. When they were in the midst of their
journey a cow began to low.
"O!" cried the court page, "now we have it! That shows a wonderful power
in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before."
"No, those are cows lowing!" said the little Kitchen Girl. "We are a long
way from the place yet!"
Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.
"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court Preacher. "Now I hear it - it sounds
just like little church bells."
"No, those are frogs!" said the little Kitchen-maid. "But now I think
we shall soon hear it."
And then the Nightingale began to sing.
"That is it!" exclaimed the little Girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it
sits."
And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.
"Is it possible?" cried the Cavalier. "I should never have thought it
looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its color
at seeing such grand people around."
"Little Nightingale" called the Kitchen-maid, quite loudly "our
gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him."
"With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and began to sing
most delightfully.
"It sounds just like glass bells!" said the Cavalier. "And look at its
little throat, how it`s working! It`s wonderful that we should never have
heard it before. That bird will be a great success at court."
"Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" asked the Nightingale, for
it thought the Emperor was present.
"My excellent little Nightingale," said the Cavalier, "I have great
pleasure in inviting you to a court festival this evening, when you shall
charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing."
"My song sounds best in the greenwood!" replied the Nightingale; still it
came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.
The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were
of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most
glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the passages.
There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and all the bells rang
so loudly that one could not hear one`s self speak.
In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch had
been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole court was there,
and the little Cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the door, as she had
now received the title of a real court cook. All were in full dress, and all
looked at the little gray bird, to which the Emperor nodded.
And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the
Emperor`s eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; and then the
Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart. The
Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have his
golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined this with
thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward.
"I have seen tears in the Emperor`s eyes - that is the real treasure to
me. An emperor`s tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!" And then
it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.
"That`s the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!" said the ladies who stood
round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when any one
spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And the lackeys
and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied too; and that was saying a
good deal, for they are the most difficult to please. In short, the
Nightingale achieved a real success.
It was now to remain at court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go
out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed when the
Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened to the bird`s
leg, which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure in an excursion
of that kind.
The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one
said nothing but "Nightin," and the other said "gale;" and then they sighed,
and understood one another. Eleven peddler`s children were named after the
bird, but not one of them could sing a note.
One day the Emperor received a large parcel, on which was written "The
Nightingale."
"There we have a new book about this celebrated bird," said the Emperor.
But it was not a book, but a little work of art, contained in a box, an
artificial nightingale, which was to sing like a natural one and was
brilliantly ornamented with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. So soon as the
artificial bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that he really
sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold.
Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, "The Emperor of
China`s Nightingale is poor compared to that of the Emperor of Japan."
"That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the artificial
bird immediately received the title, Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.
"Now they must sing together; what a duet that will be!"
And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the
real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the artificial bird sang waltzes.
"That`s not his fault," said the Play-master; "he`s quite perfect, and
very much in my style."
Now the artificial bird was to sing alone. He had just as much success as
the real one, and then it was much handsomer to look at - it shone like
bracelets and breastpins.
Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not
tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that
the living Nightingale ought to sing something now. But where was it? No one
had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window, back to the
greenwood.
"But what is become of that?" said the Emperor.
And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale, and declared that it was a
very ungrateful creature.
"We have the best bird, after all," said they.
And so the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty -
fourth time that they listened to the same piece. For all that they did not
know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And the Play-master
praised the bird particularly; yes, he declared that it was better than a
nightingale, not only with regard to its plumage and the many beautiful
diamonds, but inside as well.
"For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial Majesty,
with a real nightingale one can never calculate what is coming, but in this
artificial bird everything is settled. One can explain it; one can open it,
and make people understand where the waltzes come from, how they go, and how
one follows up another."
"Those are quite our own ideas," they all said.
And the speaker received permission to show the bird to the people on the
next Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, the Emperor commanded; and
they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had all got tipsy upon
tea, for that`s quite the Chinese fashion; and they all said, "O!" and held up
their forefingers and nodded. But the poor Fisherman, who had heard the real
Nightingale, said, -
"It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies resemble each other, but
there`s something wanting, though I know not what!"
The real Nightingale was banished from the country and empire. The
artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor`s bed;
all the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, were ranged about
it; in title it had advanced to be the High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and
in rank, to number one on the left hand; for the Emperor considered that side
the most important in which the heart is placed, and even in an emperor the
heart is on the left side; and the Play-master wrote a work of five-and-
twenty volumes about the artificial bird; it was very learned and very long,
full of most difficult Chinese words; but yet all the people declared that
they had read it, and understood it, for fear of being considered stupid, and
having their bodies trampled on.
So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the court, and all the other
Chinese knew every little twitter in the artificial bird`s song by heart. But
just for that reason it pleased them best - they could sing with it
themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang, "Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!"
and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that was certainly famous.
But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the
Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird said, "Whizz!"
Something cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the wheels ran round, and then the music
stopped.
The Emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and caused his body physician
to be called; but what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker, and after
a good deal of talking and investigation, the bird was put into something like
order; but the Watchmaker said that the bird must be carefully treated, for
the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put new ones in such a
manner that the music would go. There was great lamentation; only once in a
year was it permitted to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But
then the Play-master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said
this was just as good as before - and so of course it was as good as before.
Now five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation.
The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was ill, and could
not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been chosen, and
the people stood out in the street and asked the Cavalier how their old
Emperor did.
"P!" said he, and shook his head.
Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great gorgeous bed; the whole court
thought him dead, and each one ran to pay homage to the new ruler. The
chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies`-maids had a great
coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid
down so that no footstep could be heard, and therefore it was quiet there,
quiet quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet: stiff and pale he lay on the
gorgeous bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high
up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the
artificial bird.
The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay
upon his chest: he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death who sat
upon his chest, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one hand the
Emperor`s sword and in the other his beautiful banner. And all around, from
among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads peered forth; a
few very ugly, the rest quiet lovely and mild. These were all the Emperor`s
bad and good deeds, that stood before him now that Death sat upon his heart.
"Do you remember this?" whispered one to the other. "Do you remember
that?" and then they told him so much that the perspiration ran from his
forehead.
"I did not know that!" said the Emperor. "Music! music! the great Chinese
drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they say!" And they continued
speaking, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said.
"Music! music!" cried the Emperor. "You little precious golden bird,
sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my
golden slipper around your neck - sing now, sing!"
But the bird stood still; no one was there to wind him up, and he could
not sing without that; but Death continued to stare at the Emperor with his
great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, 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 has heard of
the Emperor`s sad plight, and had come to sing to him of comfort and hope. And
as it sang the spectres grew paler and paler; the blood ran quickly and more
quickly through the Emperor`s weak limbs; and even Death listened, and said, -
"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"
"But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that
rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor`s crown?"
And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the Nightingale
sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet church-yard, where the white roses
grow, where the elder-blossom smells sweet, and where the fresh grass is
moistened by the tears of survivors. The Death felt a longing to see his
garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold, white mist.
"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird! I know you
well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have charmed away
the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my heart! How can I
reward you?"
"You have rewarded me!" replied the Nightingale. "I have drawn tears from
your eyes, when I sang the first time - I shall never forget that. Those are
the jewels that rejoice a singer`s heart. But now sleep and grow fresh and
strong again. I will sing you something."
And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and
refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows, when he
awoke refreshed and restored; not one of his servants had yet returned, for
they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still sat beside him and
sang.
"You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you
please; and I`ll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces."
"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could; keep
it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace to dwell
in; but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in the evening on
the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something, so that you may be
glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and of those
who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that remain hidden round about
you. The little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fisherman, to the
peasant`s roof, to every one who dwells far away from you and from your court.
I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of
sanctity about it. I will come and sing to you - but one thing you must
promise me."
"Everything!" said the Emperor; and he stood there in his imperial robes,
which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with gold
to his heart.
"One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who
tells you everything. Then it will go all the better."
And the Nightingale flew away.
The servants came in to look to their dead Emperor, and - yes, there he
stood, and the Emperor said "Good morning!"
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