Way over in China, a long, long time ago, lived an Emperor whose palace was the fanciest place you could ever imagine. It was made of delicate porcelain, so fine you had to be careful not to sneeze too hard near it! And his garden? Oh, it was full of the most amazing flowers, with tiny silver bells tied to them that tinkled in the breeze. This garden stretched so far, even the head gardener didn't know where it ended, and deep within it lived a Nightingale.

One day, the Emperor was reading a big book from another country. It said, "The Emperor of China's garden is lovely, but the Nightingale that sings there is the best thing of all!"
The Emperor blinked. "A Nightingale? In *my* garden? Why has no one told me?" He called for his Prime Minister, a very important-looking man with a long silky mustache. "Find this Nightingale! I want to hear it sing tonight!"

The Prime Minister and all the important people in fancy robes scurried around. "A Nightingale? What's a Nightingale?" they whispered. They’d never paid attention to birds that weren't, say, made of gold or painted on a fancy screen.
Finally, they found a little kitchen maid, who was always cheerful. "Oh yes," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I know the Nightingale. It sings so sweetly when I take my scraps to the forest edge. Its song makes me feel happy, even when I'm tired."

So, a whole parade of important people followed the little kitchen maid. They grumbled a bit because the path was muddy and their shiny shoes got dirty. At last, the maid pointed to a little grey-brown bird sitting on a branch. "There it is!"
They all looked. "Is *that* it?" sniffed one lord, adjusting his spectacles. "It's so plain! I expected something with feathers of gold and diamonds!"
But then, the Nightingale opened its tiny beak and sang. Oh, the music! It was so beautiful, so pure, it filled the air with joy. It made the grumpy Emperor smile, and a tear even rolled down his cheek. He hadn't felt anything so wonderful in a long time.

"You must stay with me!" declared the Emperor. The Nightingale got a golden perch right in the Emperor's bedroom and was treated like a star. It sang for the Emperor whenever he wished, and its songs were always new and lovely.

Then, one day, a big, beautifully wrapped box arrived. It was a gift from the Emperor of Japan. Inside was a toy bird, covered in sparkling jewels – rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. It had a little key, and when you wound it up, it sang a pretty little tune. "Whirr, click, tweet-tweet-tweet!"
"How clever!" everyone cried. "And so much prettier than the real one!" The mechanical bird could sing its one song over and over, exactly the same each time.
Everyone loved the shiny toy bird. And while they were all listening to its predictable tune, the real Nightingale, feeling a bit forgotten and sad that its living song wasn't as exciting anymore, quietly flew out the window and back to its green forest. No one even noticed it was gone.

The toy bird was a big hit. It sang its song thirty-three times one evening! But then, one day – *CRACK! SNAP!* – something inside broke. The royal clockmaker, a clever man with tiny tools, tried to fix it, but he shook his head sadly. "It can only sing once a year now, and very carefully, or it might break completely."

Years passed. The Emperor grew old and very sick. He lay in his big bed, pale and weak. He felt a heavy, cold weight on his chest. It was Death, with his hollow eyes, come to take him. Ghosts of his past deeds, good and bad, floated around his bed.
"Music!" whispered the Emperor, his voice like a dry leaf. "Oh, for some music! You, little golden bird," he said to the toy on its silk cushion, "sing for me! I gave you so many jewels!"
But the toy bird was silent. There was no one to wind it up, and even if there were, it was too broken.

Suddenly, from the open window, came the most beautiful song. It was the real Nightingale! It had heard the Emperor was ill and had flown back to comfort him.
It sang of quiet forests, of sunny meadows, and of the dew on the grass. The song was so lovely, so full of life, that even Death listened. "Keep singing, little bird," Death said, his voice softer than before.
The Nightingale sang on, about the peaceful churchyard where white roses grow. As it sang, Death slowly faded away like a morning mist, and the Emperor felt strength returning to him. Color came back to his cheeks.

"Oh, you dear little bird!" cried the Emperor, tears of gratitude in his eyes. "How can I thank you? I chased you away for a toy, and yet you came back and saved my life!"
"I saw tears in your eyes the first time I sang for you," said the Nightingale gently. "Those are the jewels a singer truly treasures. I will come and sing for you sometimes, when I wish. But you must promise me one thing: let me fly free. I will sit on the branch outside your window and sing. I will sing of the happy things and the sad things in your kingdom, of the good people and the ones who are struggling. That way, you will know what is truly happening, and you can be a truly wise Emperor."

The Emperor agreed. And so, the Nightingale would visit, singing its heart out. The Emperor listened, not just to the beautiful music, but to the stories the bird brought from the world outside his palace walls. And he learned to be not just a powerful Emperor, but a kind and wise one, all thanks to a little grey-brown bird with a magical voice.

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