Short Stories
“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swal-
low,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you
must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”
“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am
going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he
not?”
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down
dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as
if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had
snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square
below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed
the column he looked up at the statue: “Dear me! how shabby
the Happy Prince looks!” he said.
“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who al-
ways agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and
he is golden no longer,” said the Mayor in fact, “he is litttle beter
than a beggar!”
“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.
“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the
Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not
to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of
the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he
is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Profes-
sor at the University.
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