The Swineherd

Once there was a prince who owned a small kingdom—so small a single rosebush could almost cover it. He was not rich, but he was proud in the right way and wished to marry for love. He had heard of an emperor’s daughter who was very beautiful. “If she loves what is true and good,” he thought, “she may also love me.”

The prince did not send jewels or gold. Instead, he sent two gifts that came straight from his heart. One was a real rose from his garden, a rose so lovely that it opened only once in a great while. Its petals glowed like morning, and its scent was sweeter than any perfume, gentle and pure. The other gift was a living nightingale that sang with all the music of the world tucked into its little throat.

Servants carried the gifts to the palace. The emperor and his court admired the fine carved boxes, then brought them to the princess. She lifted the lid of the first and found the rose. “Is it artificial?” she asked.

“No, Your Highness,” the servant said. “It is a real rose.”

“Then it is not to my taste,” the princess replied. She had shelves of artificial flowers that never faded and sparkled with glitter. She handed the rose back.

She opened the second box and saw the small gray-brown nightingale. “Does it sing by clockwork?” she asked.

“No, Your Highness,” said the servant. “It is a living bird.”

“Then let it fly,” she said lightly. “A clockwork bird never tires, and its song is always the same.” The real nightingale beat its wings and vanished into the trees. The prince’s simple, honest gifts were refused.

When he heard this, the prince flushed with sadness—and a little anger. He put on plain clothes, darkened his face with soot, and went to the emperor’s palace. “Will you hire me?” he asked the emperor’s cook. “I can keep the pigs.”

And so the prince became the swineherd, sleeping in a small shed beside the sty. But though his clothes were ragged, his mind was clever. In his spare time he made a curious pot. When water boiled in it, little silver bells around the rim chimed a bright tune, and when you peered into the steam, you could see what everyone in the whole city was cooking for supper. It was a marvel.

The princess heard the cheerful chiming from her window and sent a lady-in-waiting to ask what it was. “A pot,” said the swineherd. “When it boils, it sings and shows you what the people are cooking.”

“How delightful,” said the princess when she heard. “I must have it! What is the price?”

“Ten kisses from the princess,” the swineherd answered.

The lady-in-waiting opened her eyes very wide. She hurried back and whispered the price. The princess blushed, then tapped her finger on the sill. At last she said, “If the pot can do what you say, I will give him ten kisses.” She and her ladies went to the pigsty, held up their fans and shawls like a little wall, and counted softly as the kisses were paid: “One… two… three…” The bells on the pot jingled merrily.

The courtyard rustled with whispers. From a balcony the emperor frowned. “What is going on down there?” he asked.

“A new song for the pigs, Your Majesty!” cried someone, and the emperor shook his head and went inside.

Soon the swineherd made something else: a rattle with tiny bells and wheels and strings. When you turned it, it played every tune under the sun—lullabies and marches, jigs and waltzes. The princess heard the music and clapped her hands. “I must have that, too! What is the price?”

“A hundred kisses from the princess,” said the swineherd.

“A hundred!” The princess stepped back. But the rattle trilled such a merry little melody that her feet tapped all on their own. “Very well,” she said at last. “Bring more fans and shawls.” Again, the ladies made a screen, and again the counting began: “Ten… twenty… thirty…”

This time the emperor stepped out just as the counting reached “Eighty-six… ninety-six…” He saw the fans, the swineherd, and his daughter leaning forward to pay for a toy, and his face turned the color of a ripe beet. “Out!” he thundered. “Out with the swineherd, and out with a princess who trades kisses for trinkets!” He waved his scepter toward the gate. The guards opened it, and the princess, still holding the silly rattle, was sent into the rainy street.

The swineherd walked out, too, but just beyond the gate he stopped. He dipped a cloth into a puddle, wiped the soot from his face, and threw off his ragged cloak. There stood the prince in his fine, simple clothes, bright as the day the rose had blossomed.

The princess stared. “You!” she cried softly. “You are the prince who sent the rose and the nightingale.”

“I am,” he said. His eyes were kind, but firm. “You would not accept a real rose or a living song, and you did not value an honest gift from a true heart. Yet you gave a hundred kisses for toys.” He shook his head. “Now I know your taste. I cannot marry someone who does not know what is true and good.”

The prince bowed and walked away through the silver threads of rain.

The princess stood by the gate, the rattle quiet in her hand. She thought of the rose that would have kept its perfume in her memory, and of the nightingale that would have filled the gardens with music. The rain tapped on her crown and slid down her cheeks like tears.

And the lesson lingered in the damp evening air: it is wise to value what is real and good, before its chance is gone.