“Nonsense!” said its mother. “You shall do no such thing.”
“But the Nightingale says she is so very lovely,” said a Wren, looking out from her little nest in a hedge close by.
“The Nightingale!” said the old Bullfinch, scornfully. “Every one knows that the Nightingale was moonstruck long ago. Who can trust a word he says?”
“Nevertheless, I should like to see her,” said the Wren.
“I have seen her, and the Nightingale is right,” said a Wood-dove in its soft, cooing tones. “I was awake last night and saw her; she is more lovely than anything that ever came here before.”
“Of whom were you talking?” asked the Sunbeam; and he shot across to the Bullfinch’s nest. All the birds were silent when they saw him. At last the Bullfinch said, “Only of a Moonbeam, your Highness. No one your Highness would care about,” for the Bullfinch remembered the quarrel between the Sun and Moon, and did not like to say much.
“What is she like?” asked the Sunbeam. “I have never seen a Moonbeam.”
“I have seen her, and she is as beautiful as an angel,” said the Wood-dove. “But you should ask the Nightingale. He knows more about her than any one, for he always comes out to sing to her.”
“Where is the Nightingale?” asked the Sunbeam.
“He is resting now,” said the Wren, “and will not say a word. But later, as the Sun begins to set, he will come out and tell you.”