Short Stories
happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead
they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness
and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of
lead yet I cannot chose but weep.”
“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He
was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far
away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows
is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her
face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked
by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering pas-
sion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s
maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the
corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is
asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river
water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you
not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fas-
tened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends
are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-
flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King.
The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in
yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a
chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will
you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The
boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.”
“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last sum-
mer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys,
the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They
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