"Give me a red rose,"she cried, "and i ll sing you my sweetest song."

But the tree shook it's head.

"my roses are red,"it answered, " as red as colour of love....but the winter has chilled my veins, and i shall have no rose at all this year."

"one rose is all i want," cried the Nightingale, "only one 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...in the name of love."

"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."

And the Nightingale did it..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 a love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree, there blossomed a beautiful rose, petal following petal..

Pale was it, as first...

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn and louder grew her song..And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose..

But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for the only the Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

"Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, " or the Day ll 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....

the rose became crimson...
crimson as the ruby was the heart..

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 in her throat..

Then she gave one last burst of music.
The rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air.

"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...