On the grave of the Prince's father, there grew a rose-tree--such a wonderful rose-tree! It bloomed only once in five years, and then it bore only one rose--but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The Prince had also a nightingale which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in the world were contained in its little throat. The rose and the nightingale were both to be given to the Princess, and were therefore placed in two great silver caskets and sent to her. The Emperor had them carried before him into the great hall where the Princess was playing at "visiting" with her ladies-in-waiting--they had nothing else to do. When she saw the caskets with the presents in them, she clapped her hands with joy. "If it were only a little pussy-cat," she cried. But out came a beautiful rose. "How elegantly it is made," said all the ladies of the court. "It is more than elegant," said the Emperor, "It is _neat_. "Fie, papa," she said, "it is not made at all; it is a _natural_ rose." "Let us see what the other casket contains before we lose our temper," said the Emperor, and then out came the little nightingale and sang so sweetly that at first nobody could think of anything to say against it." "_Superbe, superbe_," cried the ladies of the court, for they all chattered French, one worse than the other. "How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' musical-box!" said an old Lord-in-Waiting. "Ah, me! the same tone, the same execution." "The very same," said the Emperor, and he cried like a little child. "I hope it is not a real bird," said the Princess. Oh, yes! it is a real bird," said those who had brought it. "Then let the bird fly away," she said, and she would on no account allow the Prince to come in. But he was not to be disheartened; he smeared his face with black and brown, drew his cap over his forehead, and knocked at the Palace door. The Emperor opened it. "Good day, Emperor," he said. "Could I get work at the Palace?" "Well, there are so many wanting places," said the Emperor; "but let me see!--I need a Swineherd. I have a good many pigs to keep." So the Prince was made Imperial Swineherd. He had a wretched little room near the pig-sty and here he was obliged to stay. But the whole day he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a neat little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and as soon as the pot began to boil, the bells fell to jingling most sweetly and played the old melody: "Ach du lieber Augustin, Alles is weg, weg, weg!"[54] But the most wonderful thing was that when you held your finger in the steam of the pipkin, you could immediately smell what dinner was cooking on every hearth in the town. That was something very different from a rose.