MY NIGHTINGALE. 19

all around him. And at night he would
tell the stories to his mother, and his eyes
would glisten and his cheeks flush from
pure delight.

“Oh, if I could but write such a
story!” he said hundreds of times.

Although he was only a small boy, |
yet his whole soul was in the story; and
he made the words so living, as it were,
that his mother would sit and listen, for-
getful of all else. When she noticed this,
she left off grieving that he was not like
other children, and she saw that her boy
was to be something different from the
rest. She wisely encouraged his love for
the stories, for she knew that none sweeter
had been set down on paper. And Hol-
ger’s favourite story was that of ‘The
Nightingale,” which no doubt most of you
know. It tells how the Emperor of
China suddenly discovered that he pos-
sessed a treasure he had never heard of