“We have the best bird, after all,” said they.

And so the toy bird had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time they had listened to the same piece.  For all that, they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult.  And the Play-master praised the bird highly; yes, he declared that it was better than the real Nightingale, not only in its feathers and its many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.

“For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial Majesty, with the real Nightingale one can never make sure what is coming, but in this toy bird everything is settled.  It is just so, and not any other way.  One can explain it; one can open it, and can show how much thought went to making it, where the waltzes come from, how they go, and how one follows another.”

“Those are quite our own ideas,” they all said.  And the Play-master got leave to show the bird to the people on the next Sunday.  The people were to hear it sing too, said the Emperor; and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had all had tea, for that’s quite the Chinese fashion; and they all said “Oh!” and held their forefingers up in the air and nodded.  But the poor Fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said:—­

“It sounds pretty enough, and it’s a little like, but there’s something wanting, though I know not what!”

The real Nightingale was exiled from the land and empire.

The toy bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor’s bed.  All the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, were ranged about it.  In title it had come to be High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank it was Number One on the left hand; for the Emperor reckoned that side the most important on which the heart is placed, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left side.  And the Play-master wrote a work of five-and-twenty volumes about the toy bird:  it was so learned and so long, full of the most difficult Chinese words, that all the people said they had read it and understood it, or else they would have been thought stupid, and would have had their bodies trampled on.

So a whole year went by.  The Emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese knew every little twitter in the toy bird’s song by heart.  But just for that reason it pleased them best—­they could sing with it themselves, and they did so.  The street boys sang, “Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!” and the Emperor himself sang it too.  Yes, that was certainly famous.

But one evening, when the toy bird was singing its best, and the Emperor lay in bed and heard it, something inside the bird said, “Svup!” Something cracked.  “Whir-r-r!” All the wheels ran round, and then the music stopped.