He thrust his fingers farther and fartherinto his ears, till at last the drums burst. And now he could hearnothing more of the true, the beautiful, and the good; for his hearingwas to have been the means by which he hoped to acquire his knowledge.He became silent and suspicious, and at last trusted no one, noteven himself, and no longer hoping to find and bring home the costlyjewel, he gave it up, and gave himself up too, which was worse thanall.
  The birds in their flight towards the east, carried the tidings,and the news reached the castle in the Tree of the Sun.
  "I will try now," said the third brother; "I have a keen nose."Now that was not a very elegant expression, but it was his way, and wemust take him as he was. He had a cheerful temper, and was, besides, areal poet; he could make many things appear poetical, by the way inwhich he spoke of them, and ideas struck him long before they occurredto the minds of others. "I can smell," he would say; and he attributedto the sense of smelling, which he possessed in a high degree, a greatpower in the region of the beautiful. "I can smell," he would say,"and many places are fragrant or beautiful according to the taste ofthe frequenters. One man feels at home in the atmosphere of thetavern, among the flaring tallow candles, and when the smell ofspirits mingles with the fumes of bad tobacco. Another prefers sittingamidst the overpowering scent of jasmine, or perfuming himself withscented olive oil. This man seeks the fresh sea breeze, while that oneclimbs the lofty mountain-top, to look down upon the busy life inminiature beneath him."
  As he spoke in this way, it seemed as if he had already been outin the world, as if he had already known and associated with man.But this experience was intuitive- it was the poetry within him, agift from Heaven bestowed on him in his cradle. He bade farewell tohis parental roof in the Tree of the Sun, and departed on foot, fromthe pleasant scenes that surrounded his home. Arrived at its confines,he mounted on the back of an ostrich, which runs faster than ahorse, and afterwards, when he fell in with the wild swans, he swunghimself on the strongest of them, for he loved change, and away heflew over the sea to distant lands, where there were great forests,deep lakes, lofty mountains, and proud cities. Wherever he came itseemed as if sunshine travelled with him across the fields, forevery flower, every bush, exhaled a renewed fragrance, as if consciousthat a friend and protector was near; one who understood them, andknew their value. The stunted rose-bush shot forth twigs, unfolded itsleaves, and bore the most beautiful roses; every one could see it, andeven the black, slimy wood-snail noticed its beauty. "I will give myseal to the flower," said the snail, "I have trailed my slime upon it,I can do no more.
  "Thus it always fares with the beautiful in this world," saidthe poet. And he made a song upon it, and sung it after his ownfashion, but nobody listened. Then he gave a drummer twopence and apeacock's feather, and composed a song for the drum, and the drummerbeat it through the streets of the town, and when the people heardit they said, "That is a capital tune." The poet wrote many songsabout the true, the beautiful, and the good. His songs were listenedto in the tavern, where the tallow candles flared, in the fresh cloverfield, in the forest, and on the high-seas; and it appeared as if thisbrother was to be more fortunate than the other two.
  But the evil spirit was angry at this, so he set to work with sootand incense, which he can mix so artfully as to confuse an angel,and how much more easily a poor poet. The evil one knew how tomanage such people. He so completely surrounded the poet withincense that the man lost his head, forgot his mission and his home,and at last lost himself and vanished in smoke.
  But when the little birds heard of it, they mourned, and for threedays they sang not one song. The black wood-snail became blackerstill; not for grief, but for envy. "They should have offered meincense," he said, "for it was I who gave him the idea of the mostfamous of his songs- the drum song of 'The Way of the World;' and itwas I who spat at the rose; I can bring a witness to that fact."
  But no tidings of all this reached the poet's home in India. Thebirds had all been silent for three days, and when the time ofmourning was over, so deep had been their grief, that they hadforgotten for whom they wept. Such is the way of the world.
  "Now I must go out into the world, and disappear like the rest,"said the fourth brother. He was as good-tempered as the third, butno poet, though he could be witty.
  The two eldest had filled the castle with joyfulness, and nowthe last brightness was going away. Sight and hearing have always beenconsidered two of the chief senses among men, and those which theywish to keep bright; the other senses are looked upon as of lessimportance.
  But the younger son had a different opinion; he had cultivated histaste in every way, and taste is very powerful. It rules over whatgoes into the mouth, as well as over all which is presented to themind; and, consequently, this brother took upon himself to tasteeverything stored up in bottles or jars; this he called the rough partof his work. Every man's mind was to him as a vessel in whichsomething was concocting; every land a kind of mental kitchen."There are no delicacies here," he said; so he wished to go out intothe world to find something delicate to suit his taste. "Perhapsfortune may be more favorable to me than it was to my brothers. Ishall start on my travels, but what conveyance shall I choose?