Читать книгу Fairy Tales, Fables, And Legends - Beatrice Wilcken - Страница 5

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On a beautiful summer’s morning the Queen of the flowers, the Rose, opened her eyes to the light of the day. She had slept in her green mossy leaves until the Sun-god’s fiery kisses had awakened her, and, blushingly, she had unfolded leaf after leaf until she stood in all her queenly beauty. And Nature rejoiced! The birds sang rapturously. “The Rose is born, the Rose is born!” The butterflies whisper to each other, “The Rose is born; she is so very beautiful!” The bees carried the news to the fields—to every little flower. “Rejoice,” they said, “the Rose is born, the Queen of flowers. We have no time to-day to chat with you, we must carry the news far and wide, and then we must go and worship her.” And the little flowers begged and prayed—“O dearest bees do stop and tell us how the Rose looks? Is she really so very beautiful?” But the bees had no time to answer. They flew away and the little flowers grew so sad that they cried all night. We often see tears in the eyes of the flower; human beings call them dew, but the Sun-god, who is so good, knows better, and when he rises in the morning and sees all the little flowers in tears he paints them so that they sparkle; and, instead of tears, even the tiniest flower carries a crown of diamonds and gold. And, as the Queen of the flowers had been born, all that could fly and move about, came to worship her. When the Sun-god had given the last kiss to the earth, and blossoms and flowers, birds and insects, and all Nature had quietly gone to rest and only dreamt of him—suddenly the Nightingale began his magic song. He loved the Rose, and in the stillness of night he poured forth all the delight and all the sadness which moved his heart. The sound floated nearer, and then further away, until the air was filled with sweetest melody.

Every night when all Nature was song and beauty, a young maiden rested on a seat for a short while. In dreamful happiness she listened smilingly; her heart understood what the nightingale sang. One night she brought her lover; arm in arm they walked along, and stood before the Rose. He said, “To-morrow is our wedding day; let me give you the loveliest gift on the last day of your sweet maidenhood;” and he broke the Rose and fastened it in her hair. Alone and lonely the Nightingale sang his song, and with his last note fell dead. The intensity of sound had burst his little throat.

Many, many years later, when it was a summer’s night again, and once more a young Rose Queen was born, and a young Nightingale sang of love, a woman stood at the seat; her hair shone like silver in the moonlight. She had a book in her hand. She opened it, and her eyes fell on a withered rose. Slowly she pressed her lips to it, and raised her eyes to the stars. The moonlight kissed the tears on her cheek and wove a silver glory around her head. But the Nightingale sings of undying beauty and of undying love.