Fanny went to bed before candle time in a little bed that a cabinet-maker of the village had made a long time ago, with a frame of walnut and graceful banisters. Long ago the good man had gone to sleep in the shadow of the church, under a black cross, in a bed with a coverlet of grass, for Fanny’s bed had been her grandfather’s when he was a little baby, and the little girl slept now in the same place as her ancestor. She slept. A cotton curtain with a pattern of roses protected her slumbers. She slept and dreamed. She saw the blue bird flying toward the castle of his love. He looked as beautiful as a star, but she did not expect for a moment to see him perch on her shoulder. She knew she was not a princess, and couldn’t expect visits from a prince changed into a bird the color of deep sky. However, she told herself that all birds are not princes, that the birds in the village are villagers and among them may well enough have been some country boy changed into a sparrow by a wicked fairy, and having a love for Fanny in his heart beneath his gray feathers. Such an one, if she should find him, she would give not only bread, but cakes and kisses too. She would like to see him. And now she does see him! He comes and perches on her shoulder. He’s just a little cock sparrow, not fine or rare, but very alert and lively. To tell the truth his appearance is a little tousled: one tail feather is missing, lost in a fight, that is unless he has encountered some bad fairy in the village. Fanny suspects him of having a bad head; but she is a girl, and it does not worry her that her cock sparrow has a bad head if his heart is good. She pets him and calls him pretty names. All of a sudden he grows bigger and longer: his wings change into two arms. He turns into a boy, and Fanny recognizes Antony the gardener’s little boy, who says to her: “Let’s come and play together.”

She claps her hands with joy and starts to go—then suddenly wakes up. She rubs her eyes. No sparrow, no Antony! She is alone in the little room. The dawn, shining through the little flowered curtain, spreads its innocent light on the bed. She hears the birds singing in the garden. She jumps out of bed in her nightgown, opens the window, and there in the garden, among the roses and geraniums and morning glories, are the little bird beggars, the little musicians of last night, sitting in a row on the fence rail and giving her a morning song to pay for their crumbs of bread.