Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and gray. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he took to the poor. “We have bread now!” they cried. And the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince; he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-by, dear Prince!” he murmured. “Will you let me kiss your hand?”
“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”
“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”
And he kissed the happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped in two. It certainly was a hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councilors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue. “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.