The Nightingales.
A certain birdcatcher one spring had caught a number of Nightingales in the copses. The songsters were put in cages, and they began to sing, although they would much rather have been wandering at will through the woods. When one sits in prison, has one a mind for song? But there was nothing to be done; so they sang, some from sorrow, and others to pass the time.
One poor wretch among the Nightingales endured more suffering than any of the others. He had been taken from his mate: to him confinement was most grievous. Through his tears he looked out afield from his cage; day and night did he sorrow.
At last he thinks "Grief cures no evil. Only fools weep on account of misfortunes; the wise seek for the means of working out relief from their woes. I, too, methinks, will be able to fling this weight of calamity off my neck. Surely we cannot have been caught for eating. Our master, I can see, likes to hear singing. So if I do him a service by my voice, it may be that it will bring me my reward, and he will put an end to my captivity."
So thought our minstrel, and began to sing. With song he glorified the evening glow, and with song he greeted the
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