星孩儿又可怜他，把赤金也给了他，对他说：“你比我更需要它。”但他心里依然很难过，因为他知道死亡的阴影已笼罩在自己身上。
但是，看啊！当他走进城门的时候，卫兵们都躬身行礼，说道：“我们的主多么好看啊，您是我们国王的儿子！”一群老百姓也跟在他后面欢呼：“世间绝没有这样好看的人！”星孩儿听见，反而哭泣起来，暗自说：“他们都瞧不起我，还要嘲弄我，拿我的不幸来寻开心。”这时拥挤的人越来越多，使他迷了路。在人群中一阵穿梭，他来到一个大广场，王宫便矗立在他的眼前。
这时宫殿开了门，许多教士和大官都出来迎接他，伏在他身前，高声说道：“陛下便是先王的儿子，我们所期待的王！”
星孩儿就回答他们道：“我不是什么先王的儿子，我只是个叫花婆的儿子，我知道我很丑，你们为什么要说我好看呢？”
身穿镀金花甲，盔上绣着飞狮的那人便拿起盾牌给星孩儿当镜子，并叫道：“我王为什么说自己不好看呀？”
“啊！”星孩儿一照，立刻惊叫起来，他的脸又同当初一样，美丽的面容复原了，并且他还看见自己的眼睛里有一种从来不曾有过的东西。
教士和大官们便跪下来，对他说：“从前有位先知曾预言，统治我们的人就要在今天降临，所以请我王戴上这顶王冠，手持这个王杖，以正义与慈悲之心来做我们的国王吧！”
但星孩儿对他们说：“我不配做一国之君，因为我以前虐待过我的生身之母，如果我找不着她，得不到饶恕，我是绝不会罢休的，所以请让我走吧。虽然你们把王冠、王杖都拿来给我，但我必须再到其他地方去寻她，不能在这儿耽搁！”说完，就转头往城门的那条街望去。
啊，他突然发现，在围着兵士的人群中，他的母亲叫花婆竟然就在那儿，旁边站着那个坐在城门口向他讨要金子的麻风病人。
他高兴得大叫起来，立刻跑过去跪下来吻母亲双脚，用自己的眼泪去清洗那些历经风霜的伤痕。他在灰地上磕着头，好像心胆俱碎的人那样痛哭着：“母亲啊，我在得意的时候虐待了您，如今在我失意时，您要了我吧！母亲啊，我给您的是憎恨，可是我却想要您的爱！母亲啊，我曾抛弃了您，现在请您收留不争气的儿子吧！”但那叫花婆却不回答他。
他又伸手抱住那麻风病人的双腿，对他说：“我救过你三次，你替我求求她，让她再同我说一次话吧！”那麻风病人也不理他。
于是他又哭泣起来：“母亲啊，我痛苦得实在不能忍受了，饶恕我吧，让我再回森林里去好了！”这时叫花婆就把手搁在他头上，对他说声：“起来！”麻风病人也把手搁在他头上，也对他说声：“起来！”。
星孩儿站起身来，看着他们。啊，原来他们一个是国王，一个是王后。王后对他说：“这是你救助过的父亲。”国王又说：“这就是你用眼泪去洗她脚的母亲。”
他们抱住星孩儿的额头吻他，把他带回王宫，给他穿上华丽的衣服，戴上王冠，又把王杖交给他，治理那座河畔边的王城，做了那个地方的国王。从此以后，他做了很多有利民生的善事，作恶的术士也被赶走了。对于樵夫两口子，送去许多贵重的大礼，以报答他们的养育之恩。他们的儿女，也赐了很大的恩典。并且他还不准人们虐待鸟兽，教人们要有和爱、慈悲、亲切与向善之心，没吃的给他面包，没穿的给他衣服，从此国家就平安富庶起来。
然而他当政的时间并不长久，因为他所受的痛苦太深，所受的磨炼也太苦，三年后就死了，他死后继承王位的是一个很坏的国王。
★、The Nightingale and the Rose“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses，” cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him， and she looked out through the leaves， and wondered.
“No red rose in all my garden！” he cried， and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. “Ah， on what little things does happiness depend！ I have read all that the wise men have written， and all the secrets of philosophy are mine， yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.”
“Here at last is a true lover，” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him， though I knew him not： night after night have I told his story to the stars， and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom， and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory， and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
“The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night，” murmured the young Student， “and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose， I shall hold her in my arms， and she will lean her head upon my shoulder， and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden， so I shall sit lonely， and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me， and my heart will break.”
“Here indeed is the true lover，” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of， he suffers： what is joy to me， to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds， and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it， nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants， nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.”
“The musicians will sit in their gallery，” said the young Student， “and play upon their stringed instruments， and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor， and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance， for I have no red rose to give her”； and he flung himself down on the grass， and buried his face in his hands， and wept.
“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard， as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
“Why， indeed?” said a Butterfly， who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
“Why， indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour， in a soft， low voice.
“He is weeping for a red rose，” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous！” and the little Lizard， who was something of a cynic， laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow， and she sat silent in the oak-tree， and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight， and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow， and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree， and when she saw it she flew over to it， and lit upon a spray.
“Give me a red rose，” she cried， “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are white，” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea， and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial， and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
“Give me a red rose，” she cried， “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are yellow，” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne， and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window， and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window.
“Give me a red rose，” she cried， “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are red，” it answered， “as red as the feet of the dove， and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins， and the frost has nipped my buds， and the storm has broken my branches， and I shall have no roses at all this year.”
“One red rose is all I want，” cried the Nightingale， “only one red rose！ Is there no way by which I can get it?”
“There is a way，” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.”
“Tell it to me，” said the Nightingale， “I am not afraid.”
“If you want a red rose，” said the Tree， “you must build it out of music by moonlight， and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me， and the thorn must pierce your heart， and your life-blood must flow into my veins， and become mine.”
“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose，” cried the Nightingale， “and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood， and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold， and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn， and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley， and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life， and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”
So she spread her brown wings for flight， and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow， and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass， where she had left him， and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
“Be happy，” cried the Nightingale， “be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight， and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover， for Love is wiser than Philosophy， though she is wise， and mightier than Power， though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings， and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey， and his breath is like frankincense.”
The Student looked up from the grass， and listened， but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him， for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood， and felt sad， for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
“Sing me one last song，” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree， and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up， and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form，” he said to himself， as he walked away through the grove— “that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact， she is like most artists; she is all style， without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music， and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still， it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything， or do any practical good.” And he went into his room， and lay down on his little pallet-bed， and began to think of his love; and， after a time， he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree， and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn， and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang， and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast， and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose， petal following petal， as song followed song. Pale was it， at first， as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning， and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver， as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool， so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. “Press closer， little Nightingale，” cried the Tree， “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn， and louder and louder grew her song， for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose， like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart， so the rose’s heart remained white， for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. “Press closer， little Nightingale，” cried the Tree， “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn， and the thorn touched her heart， and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter， bitter was the pain， and wilder and wilder grew her song， for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death， of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson， like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals， and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter， and her little wings began to beat， and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song， and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it， and she forgot the dawn， and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it， and it trembled all over with ecstasy， and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills， and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river， and they carried its message to the sea.
“Look， look！” cried the Tree， “the rose is finished now;” but the Nightingale made no answer， for she was lying dead in the long grass， with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
“Why， what a wonderful piece of luck！” he cried; “here is a red rose！ I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;” and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat， and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel， and her little dog was lying at her feet.
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose，” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next your heart， and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.”
But the girl frowned.
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress，” she answered; “and， besides， the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels， and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
“Well， upon my word， you are very ungrateful，” said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street， where it fell into the gutter， and a cart-wheel went over it.
“Ungrateful！” said the girl. “I tell you what， you are very rude; and， after all， who are you? Only a Student. Why， I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has;” and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
“What I a silly thing Love is，” said the Student as he walked away. “It is not half as useful as Logic， for it does not prove anything， and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen， and making one believe things that are not true. In fact， it is quite unpractical， and， as in this age to be practical is everything， I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.”
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book， and began to read.
★、The Happy Prince
High above the city， on a tall column， stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold， for eyes he had two bright sapphires， and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock，” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful，” he added， fearing lest people should think him unpractical， which he really was not.
“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy，” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
“He looks just like an angel，” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master， “you have never seen one.”
“Ah！ but we have， in our dreams，” answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe， for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before， but he had stayed behind， for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth， and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
