"We have
bread now!" they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets
looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and
glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the
eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little
boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not
leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs
outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried
to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength
to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear
Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss
me on the lips, for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am
going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he
not?"
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at
his feet.
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