that they had a strange flavour. She gave some to the little boy, but he would not eat. She tried to force him, but he refused, and ran out into the garden and took up his little sister, put her in a box, and buried the box under a rose tree; and every day he went to the tree and wept.
One day the rose tree flowered. It was spring, and there among the flowers was a white bird, and it sang sweetly. It flew to a cobbler’s shop and perched on a tree hard by, and thus it sang:—
My wicked mother slew me,
My dear father ate me;
My little brother whom I love
Sits below, and I sing above.
‘Sing again that beautiful song,’ asked the shoemaker. ‘If you will give me first the little red shoes you are making.’ The cobbler gave the shoes, the bird sang the song, and then flew to a tree in front of a watchmaker’s, and sang the same strain.
‘Oh, the beautiful song! Sing it again, sweet bird!’ asked the watchmaker. ‘If you will give me that gold watch and chain in your hand.’ So the jeweller gave the watch and chain. The bird sang the song, and flew away with the shoes in one foot and the chain in the other, to where three millers were picking a millstone. The bird perched on a
