“The Nightingale!” said the old Bullfinch, scornfully. “Everyone knows that the Nightingale was moonstruck long ago. Who can trust a word he says?”
“Nevertheless, I should like to see her,” said the Wren.
“I have seen her, and the Nightingale is right,” said a Wood-dove in its soft, cooing tones. “I was awake last night and saw her; she is more lovely than anything that ever came here before.”
“Of whom are you talking?” asked the Sunbeam; and he shot across to the Bullfinch’s nest. All the birds were silent when they saw him. At last the Bullfinch said, “Only of a Moonbeam, your Highness. No one your Highness would care about,” for the Bullfinch remembered the quarrel between the Sun and Moon, and did not like to say much.
“What is she like?” asked the Sunbeam. “I have never seen a Moonbeam.”
“I have seen her, and she is as beautiful as an angel,” said the Wood-dove. “But you should ask the Nightingale. He knows more about her than anyone, for he always comes out to sing to her.”
“Where is the Nightingale?” asked the Sunbeam.
“He is resting now,” said the Wren, “and will not say a word. But later, as the Sun begins to set, he will come out and tell you.”
“At the time when all decent birds are going to roost,” grumbled the Bullfinch.
“I will wait till the Nightingale comes,” said the Sunbeam.
So all day long he shone about the tree. As the Sun moved slowly down, his ladder dropped with it lower and lower, for it was fastened to the Sun at one end; and if he had allowed the Sun to disappear before he had run back and drawn it up, the ladder would have broken against the earth, and the poor little Sunbeam could never have gone home again, but would have wandered about, becoming paler and paler every minute, till at last he died.
But some time before the Sun had gone, when it was still shining in a glorious bed of red and gold, the Nightingale arose, and, coming forth from his concealment, began to sing loud and clear.
“Oh, is it you at last?” said the Sunbeam. “How I have waited for you. Tell me quickly about this Moonbeam of whom they are all talking.”
“What shall I tell you of her?” sang the Nightingale. “She is more beautiful than the rose. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her hair is silver, and the light of her eyes is far more lovely than yours. But why should you want to know about her? You belong to the Sun, and hate Moonbeams.”
“I do not hate them,” said the Sunbeam sadly. “What are they like? Show this one to me some night, dear Nightingale.”
“I cannot show her to you now,” answered the Nightingale; “for she will not come out till long after the Sun has set; but wait a few days, and when the Moon is full she will come a little before the Sun sets, and if you hide beneath a leaf you may look at her. But you must promise not to shine on her, or you might hurt her, or break her ladder.
“I will promise,” said the Sunbeam, and every day he came back to the same tree at sunset, to talk to the Nightingale about the Moonbeam, till the Bullfinch was quite angry.
“Tonight I shall see her at last,” he said to himself, for the Moon was almost full, and would rise before the Sun had set. He hid in the oak-leaves, trembling with expectation.
“She is coming!” said the Nightingale, and the Sunbeam peeped out from the branches, and watched. In a minute or two a tiny silver ladder like a thread was placed among the leaves, near the Nightingale’s nest, and down it came the Moonbeam, and our little Sunbeam looked out and saw her.
She did not at all look as he had expected she would, but he agreed with the Nightingale that she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. She was all silver, and pale greeny blue. Her hair and eyes shone like stars. All the Sunbeams looked bright, and hot, but she looked as cool as the sea; yet she glittered like a diamond. The Sunbeam gazed at her in surprise, unable to say a word, till all at once he saw that his little ladder was bending. The Sun was sinking, and he had only just time to scramble back, and draw his ladder after him.
The Moonbeam only saw his light vanishing, and did not see him.
“To whom were you talking, dear Nightingale?” she asked, putting her beautiful white arms round his neck, and leaning her head on his bosom.
“To a Sunbeam,” answered the Nightingale. “Ah, how beautiful he is! I was telling him about you. He longs to see you.”
“I have never seen a Sunbeam,” said the Moonbeam, wistfully. “I should like to see one so much;” and all night long she sat close beside the Nightingale, with her head leaning on his breast, whilst he sang to her of the Sunbeam; and his song was so loud and clear that it awoke the Bullfinch, who flew into a rage, and declared that if it went on any longer she would speak to the Owl about it, and have it stopped. For the Owl was chief judge, and always ate the little birds when they did not behave themselves.
But the Nightingale never ceased, and the Moonbeam listened till the tears rose in her eyes and her lips quivered.
“Tonight, then, I shall see him,” whispered the Moonbeam, as she kissed the Nightingale, and bid him adieu.
“And tonight he will see you,” said the Nightingale, as he settled to rest among the leaves.
All that next day was cloudy, and the Sun did not shine, but towards evening the clouds passed away and the Sun came forth, and no sooner
