"Now then, Crucible, none of your nonsense," said Mr. Oldstone. "Is that the way you talk to young ladies? I'm surprised at you. Look how you have made the poor girl blush." "Don't be jealous, old boy," retorted the last narrator, "but give us another story. This is your turn." "Yes, yes!" cried several voices at once. "Mr. Oldstone for a story! Hear, hear!" "Really, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "it is so soon after the last, and as it is now getting somewhat late, I would fain put off my story for another time, and spend the evening between this and bedtime in some other way. Suppose we all fill our glasses. Perhaps someone may recollect a song." "Agreed!" cried all the guests at once, "but who's to be the songster?" "Can't you favour us, Helen?" asked Mr. Parnassus. Helen declared that she could not sing, that she did not know any songs. "Come, come, Helen, that's all nonsense," said the doctor, "I've heard your voice before now warbling away when you thought no one was listening to you." "Ay, ay," said our host, "you are right, sir, she _can_ sing when she likes as pretty a little song as ever you'd wish to hear, though I say it, that shouldn't." "Come, Helen, don't be shy, sing away my girl," said Hardcase. "Let us make a bargain, Helen," said McGuilp. "If _you_ will sing a song, _I_ will. There, you cannot refuse." The girl's face brightened up as she stole a glance at our artist, and thus urged, began in a clear and sweet voice the following ditty:-- THE NIGHTINGALE. The nightingale sang to her love the rose, One night when the moon was shining, The earth was hushed in still repose, But a heart with love was pining. Two lovers through the misty air, Beneath the trees were strolling, A gallant and a lady fair, A bell in the distance tolling. "Beloved, hear'st thou that distant wail, That sad and mournful knelling?" "Sweetheart, 'tis but the nightingale, That her tale of love is telling." "No, no, 'tis not the nightingale, I feel a dire foreboding, The night spreads o'er her dusky veil, Our joys of love corroding." "Nay, loved one; banish idle fears, The moon is bright and beaming, Seek not to drown thy joy in tears, When thy star above is gleaming." "See here this flower," (he plucked a rose), "How beautious is its blossom. Wear this for me, for it but grows, To deck thy snow white bosom." Then out and shrieked the nightingale, "Oh spare, oh spare, my lover. Too late!" she cries, with dismal wail, Beneath the greenwood cover. "Ah me!" outshrieked that bird of night, "My love is gone for ever, But vengeance waits thee, cruel knight; Thou from thy love shalt sever." Too true, alas! the night bird's curse, For 'neath the trees did hover, An envious wight with arquebus, T'await his rival lover.