Short Stories
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far
away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning
over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side
there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp,
and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and
dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the
Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in
the grate, and hunger has made him faint.
“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow,
who really had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”
“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all
that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were
brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of
them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy
food and firewood, and finish his play.”
“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he
began to weep.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I
command you.”
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away
to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was
a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the
room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he
did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked
up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from
some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked
quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat
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