“I will not.”
“You are walking too fast.”
She obediently took slower steps.
He cleared his throat and, holding the paper near his eyes, began to read. A shadow gathered in his listener’s eyes at the first four lines.
“A nightingale made a mistake;
She sang a few notes out of tune,
Her heart was ready to break,
And she hid from the moon.
“She wrung her claws, poor thing,
But was far too proud to speak;
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.
“A lark arm in arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face.
“She knew they had heard her song,
She felt them snicker and sneer.
She thought this life was too long,
And wished she could skip a year.
“‘O, nightingale!’ cooed a dove,
O, nightingale, what’s the use;
You bird of beauty and love,
Why behave like a goose?
“‘Don’t skulk away from our sight,
Like a common, contemptible fowl;
You bird of joy and delight,
Why behave like an owl?
“‘Only think of all you have done;
Only think of all you can do;
A false note is really fun
From such a bird as you.
“‘Lift up your proud little crest:
Open your musical beak;
Other birds have to do their best,
You need only to speak.’
“The nightingale shyly took
Her head from under her wing,
And giving the dove a look,
Straightway began to sing.
“There was never a bird could pass;
The night was divinely calm;
And the people stood on the grass,
To hear that wonderful psalm!
“The nightingale did not care,
She only sang to the skies;
Her song ascended there,
And there she fixed her eyes.
“The people that stood below
She knew but little about;
And this story’s a moral, I know,
If you’ll try to find it out.”
“How did you know that I need that?” she asked, taking it from his hand. “Who wrote it?”
“I did.”
“Don’t you know?”