"Ho, ho, ho!" shouted the showman. "See this bird now! See the marvellous
mongrel nature of the beast! Who tells me he's only a nightingale painted
black?"

The people laughed the more at that, for there was a fellow in the crowd
looking sheepish. The Jackdaw had drawn out the scarf-pin, and held it gravely
in its beak, looking sideways with cunning eyes. He was wishing hard. All the
crowd laughed again.

Suddenly the showman's hand gave a jerk, the bottle slipped from his hold and
fell, shivering itself upon the ground.

There was a buzz of wings--the fairy had escaped.

"The beautiful is coming true," thought the Jackdaw, as he yielded to the
fairy her wand, and found, suddenly, that his wings were not clipped after
all.

"What more can I do for you?" asked the fairy, as they flew away together.
"You gave me back my wand; I have given you back your wings."

"I will not ask anything," said the little Jackdaw; "what God intends will
come true."

"Let me take you up to the moon," said the fairy. "All the Jackdaws up there
sing like nightingales."

"Why is that?" asked the little Jackdaw.