Upon this the owl put on a look of offended dignity. “My nights,” said he, “are taken up in study and research, and my days in ruminating in my cell upon all that I have learnt. As to these singing birds of whom you talk, I never listen to them--I despise them and their themes. Allah be praised, I cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and know nothing of this thing called love.” The prince now repaired to the vault, where his friend the bat was hanging by the heels, and propounded the same question. The bat wrinkled up his nose into a most snappish expression. “Why do you disturb me in my morning’s nap with such an idle question?” said he, peevishly. “I only fly by twilight, when all birds are asleep, and never trouble myself with their concerns. I am neither bird nor beast, and I thank heaven for it. I have found out the villany of the whole of them, and hate them one and all. In a word, I am a misanthrope--and know nothing of this thing called love.” As a last resort, the prince now sought the swallow, and stopped him just as he was circling about the summit of the tower. The swallow, as usual, was in a prodigious hurry, and had scarce time to make a reply. “Upon my word,” said he, “I have so much public business to attend to, and so many pursuits to follow, that I have had no time to think on the subject. I have every day a thousand visits to pay; a thousand affairs of importance to examine into, that leave me not a moment of leisure for these little sing-song matters. In a word, I am a citizen of the world--I know nothing of this thing called love.” So saying, the swallow dived into the valley, and was out of sight in a moment. The prince remained disappointed and perplexed, but with his curiosity still more piqued by the difficulty of gratifying it. While in this mood, his ancient guardian entered the tower. The prince advanced eagerly to meet him. “O Eben Bonabben,” cried he, “thou hast revealed to me much of the wisdom of the earth; but there is one thing of which I remain in utter ignorance, and would fain be informed.” “My prince has but to make the inquiry, and everything within the limited range of his servant’s intellect is at his command.” “Tell me then, O most profound of sages, what is the nature of this thing called love?” Eben Bonabben was struck as with a thunderbolt. He trembled and turned pale, and felt as if his head sat but loosely on his shoulders. “What could suggest such a question to my prince,--where could he have learnt so idle a word?” The prince led him to the window of the tower. “Listen, O Eben Bonabben,” said he. The sage listened. The nightingale sat in a thicket below the tower, singing to his paramour the rose; from every blossomed spray and tufted grove rose a strain of melody; and love--love--love--was still the unvarying strain. “Allah Akbar! God is great!” exclaimed the wise Bonabben. “Who shall pretend to keep this secret from the heart of man, when even the birds of the air conspire to betray it?”