But it was not a book: it was a little work of art, that lay in a box; a toy nightingale, which was to sing like a live one, but it was all covered with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. So soon as the toy bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that the real one sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, "The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is poor beside that of the Emperor in China."
"That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the toy bird at once got the title Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.
"Now they must sing together: what a duet that will be!"
And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the toy bird sang waltzes.
"That's not its fault," said the Play-master: "it's quite perfect, and very much in my style."
Now the toy bird was to sing alone. It made just as much of a hit as the real one, and then it was so much more fine to look at--it shone like bracelets and breastpins.
Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to sing a little something. But where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown away, out of the open window, back to its green woods.
"But what is become of it?" asked the Emperor.
Then all the courtiers scolded, and thought the Nightingale was a very thankless creature.
"We have the best bird, after all," said they.