“and I will take you both back to the Stone.” So they both sat upon his back, and he flew with them to the large Stone beneath the tree.
“Go in,” he said, stopping in front of the hole; and both passed into the hole, and nestled in the darkness within the Stone.
Then the rain began. All day long it rained, and the Nightingale sat in his nest half asleep. But when the Moon rose, after the Sun had set, the clouds cleared away, and the air was again full of tiny silver ladders, down which the Moonbeams came, but the Nightingale looked in vain for his own particular Moonbeam. He knew she could not shine on him again, therefore he mourned, and sang a sorrowful song. Then he flew down to the Stone, and sang a song at the mouth of the hole, but there came no answer. So he looked down the hole, into the Stone, but there was no trace of the Sunbeam or the Moonbeam—only one shining spot of light, where they had rested. Then the Nightingale knew that they had faded away and died.
“They could not live away from the Sun and Moon,” he said. “Still, I wish I had never told the Sunbeam of her beauty; then she would be here now.” So all night long he sang his saddest songs, and told their story again and again.
When the Bullfinch heard of it she was quite pleased. “Now, at last,” she said, “we shall hear the end of the Moonbeam. I am heartily glad, for I was sick of her.”
“How much they must have loved each other!” said the Dove. “I am glad at least that they died together,” and she cooed sadly.
But through the Stone wherein the beams had sheltered, shot up bright beautiful rays of light, silver and gold. They coloured it all over with: every colour of the rainbow, and when the Sun or Moon warmed it with their light it became quite brilliant. So that the Stone, from being the ugliest thing in the whole forest, became the most beautiful.
Men found it and called it the Opal. But the Nightingale knew that it was the Sunbeam and Moonbeam who, in dying, had suffused the Stone with their mingled colours and light; and the Nightingale will never forget them, for every night he sings their story, and that is why his song is so sad.
“I like that kind of story,” said the Brooch; “it is instructive as well as amusing. Now we know why the Opal has changing colours.”
“I cannot bring myself to believe anything so improbable,” said the Shawl-pin, scornfully. “I have known a great number of Opals, and they never told me any such thing.”
“Do you dispute my word?” said the Pin, fiercely, and a quarrel was just going to begin when a hand descended on the Pincushion, and taking up the Shawl-pin and Brooch, bore them both away.
“Shawl-pins are always quarrelsome,” said the Pin to itself, “and my story was the best after all.” And then, having nothing else to do, it went to sleep.
Siegfrid and Handa
On the border of a large forest there once stood a little village, where all the people were happy, for they were all good and industrious and honest. It was the pleasantest little village in the world. No fevers or illnesses ever came near it. The people died only of old age, and all the children were well grown and strong. The villagers never quarrelled with each other, but lived as peacefully as the flowers in the forest. Now, there was an old proverb about the place, which said that as long as the people were honest and hardworking, and never quarrelled or were greedy or avaricious, no troubles should come near them, but that heavy misfortune would fall on them directly they forgot to behave well. The children in this village were as happy as their parents, but perhaps the happiest child of all was little Siegfrid, the shoemaker’s little son. He had no brothers or sisters, but he never felt lonely, for he played with the miller’s little daughter Handa, who was just his own age, and as pretty a little maiden as you would wish to see. Siegfrid’s father, Ralph, was the only shoemaker in the village, and made shoes and boots for all the people. Once a year each one would come to him and say, “Ralph, I want a new pair of shoes, and be sure you make them as good as the last.” So Ralph had plenty to do, but he took a long time making each pair, for he always wanted them to be well made, and would have been ashamed if he had been told that they had worn out before their time or did not fit well.
His father meant to teach little Siegfrid his trade, and that he should be village shoemaker after him; and when he was grown up Siegfrid meant to marry Handa, and already the villagers, when they saw the children walking hand in hand to and from school, as they did every day, laughed and said, “There go Siegfrid and his little wife.”
The forest near was full of birds and animals, and as the villagers never hunted or hurt them in any way, they had grown quite tame. The birds would fly down from the branches and sit upon the shoulders of the passersby, or flutter round their heads singing. The squirrels sat still and let anyone stroke them, and even the timid hares came and gently rubbed themselves against the children’s legs and feet, with no more fear of them than a pussy cat would have had; in fact, the animals in the forest were as peaceful and happy as the men and women in the village.
One day there came along the high road a queer little old man—an ugly-looking man—with small eyes and a peaked cap on his head. On his back he
