A boy, nearing the age of manhood, was sitting in a garden surrounded by rose trees. He was very sad, because the girl he supposedly loved had laughed at him when he asked her to the dance. As his tears dropped, his friend the little nightengale came by him to sing.
"Gentle boy, my friend, my companion, why do glistening tears fall?"
"Ah, sweet nightengale," said he, " The girl I love mocks me; for she wants red roses if I am to take her to the dance. Alas I have none only white roses grow here, and I have no money to spare for a bouquet." The nightengale, seeing him in distress flew to the tree with the brilliant white roses.
"Dear tree, with blossoms like snow, may you bear a red rose for me?"
"No, sweet songbird, I have not that power. Only one thing can turn my blossoms red."
"Darling tree, do tell. For the boy needs my help and I would die for him."
"Die? very well." replied the tree. A sigh that was like the wind rattled its branches, " You must sing with all of your heart against the sharpest thorn atop my branches. Sing until all life has left you, until my flowers are red." The bird, filled with courage accepted the only offer.
So that night, the sweet nightengale sang, sang with her soul, her little heart pressed against the thorn, blood welling into the very veins of the tree turning the white blossoms crimson. All night she sang, until even the moon had to look away.
When the boy awoke and saw the red roses he was overjoyed and plucked a bouquet, disregarding the bird that lay dead at his feet. That night, as he went to his beloved and presented the red roses to her, she grabbed them and screamed. "You awful boy! I wanted white roses, not red. They clash with my dress." She dropped the roses to the ground and stamped on them, smearing the nightengales life on the cobble stones.