“Do you not know?” he said. “It is you!”
“I!” echoed Lampblack, and could say no more, for he feared that the bird was mocking him, a poor, silly, rusty black paint, only spread out to rot in fair weather and foul. What good could he do to any creature?
“You,” repeated the nightingale. “Did you not see that man under the wall? He had a gun; we should have been dead but for you. We will come and sing to you all night long, as you like it; and when we go to bed at dawn, I will tell my cousins, the thrushes and merles, to take our places, so that you shall hear somebody singing near you all day long.”
Lampblack was silent. His heart was too full to speak. Was it possible that he was of use, after all.
“Can it be true?” he said, timidly.
“Quite true,” said the nightingale.
“Then the master knew best,” thought Lampblack.
The colors in the studio had all the glories of the world, but he was of use in it, after all; he could save these little lives. He was poor and despised, bruised by stones and drenched by storms; yet was he content, for he had not been made quite in vain.
The sunset poured its red and golden splendors through the darkness of the boughs, and the birds sang all together, shouting for joy and praising God.
—La Ramée