"Make your songs of us," whispered the roses,—"make your songs of us."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the composer. "A song of the roses would be very strange, indeed! No, sweet flowers,—it is fame I seek, and fame would scorn even the beauty of your blushes and the subtlety of your perfumes."
"You are wrong," twittered the swallows, flying lower. "You are wrong, foolish man. Make a song for the heart,—make a song of the swallows and the roses, and it will be sung forever, and your fame shall never die."
But the composer laughed louder than before; surely there never had been a stranger suggestion than that of the roses and the swallows! Still, in his chamber that night the composer thought of what the swallows had said, and in his dreams he seemed to hear the soft tones of the roses pleading with him. Yes, many times thereafter the composer recalled what the birds and flowers had said, but he never would ask them as he sat in the garden at evening how he could make the heart-song of which they chattered. And the summer sped swiftly by, and one evening when the composer came into the garden the roses were dead, and their leaves lay scattered on the ground. There were no swallows fluttering in the sky, and the nests under the eaves were deserted. Then the composer knew his little friends were beyond recall, and he was oppressed by a feeling of loneliness. The roses and the swallows had grown to be a solace to the composer, had stolen into his heart all unawares,—now that they were gone, he was filled with sadness.
"I will do as they counselled," said he; "I will make a song of them,—a song of the swallows and the roses. I will forget my greed for fame while I write in memory of my little friends."
Then the composer made a song of the swallows and the roses, and, while he wrote, it seemed to him that he could hear the twittering of the little birds all around him, and scent the fragrance of the flowers, and his soul was warmed with a warmth he had never felt before, and his tears fell upon his manuscript.
When the world heard the song which the composer had made of the swallows and the roses, it did homage to his genius. Such sentiment, such delicacy, such simplicity, such melody, such heart, such soul,—ah, there was no word of rapturous praise too good for the composer now: fame, the sweetest and most enduring kind of fame, had come to him.
And the swallows and the roses had done it all. Their subtle influences had filled the composer's soul with a great inspiration,—by means like this God loves to speak to the human heart.
"We told you so," whispered the roses when they came again in the spring. "We told you that if you sang of us the world would love your song."
Then the swallows, flying back from the south, twittered: "We told you so; sing the songs the heart loves, and you shall live forever."