“Thanks, thanks!” said the emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well. I banished you from my empire, and yet you have charmed the evil visions away from my bed by your song, and removed Death from my heart. How can I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the nightingale, “by the tears I brought to your eyes the very first time I sang to you. Those are the jewels which gladden the heart of a singer, and I shall never forget them. But sleep now, that you may get well and strong.”
Again the nightingale sang, and the emperor fell into a refreshing slumber. When he awoke, the sun was shining in on him through the window, and he found himself vigorous and well. None of his attendants had yet come back to him, for they thought he was dead, but the nightingale still sat singing.
“You must always stay with me,” said the emperor, “and I will smash the imitation bird into a thousand pieces.”
“Don’t do that,” said the nightingale. “It did the best it could. Keep it as before. As for me, I cannot build my nest and live in the palace. Let me come when I like, and I will sit on this bough in the evening and sing to you. I will sing to cheer you and to make you think. I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of what is good and what is evil around you. The little singing bird flies far and wide—to the poor fishermen, to the peasants in their humble cottages, and to many others who are distant from you and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and I will come and sing to you, but you must grant me one request.”
“That I will do, whatever it may be,” said the emperor, who had now risen from his bed and put on his imperial robes.
“I only ask,” said the nightingale, “that you let no one know that you have a little bird which tells you everything. It will be better so.”
Then the nightingale flew away. Immediately afterward the attendants came in to look after their dead emperor. They stood aghast at sight of him, and the emperor said, “Good morning!”