THE FLOWER'S LESSON.
THERE grew a fragrant rose-tree where the brook flows, With two little tender buds, and one full rose; When the sun went down to his bed in the west, The little buds leaned on the rose-mother's breast, While the bright eyed stars their long watch kept, And the flowers of the valley in their green cradles slept; Then silently in odors they communed with each otber, The two little buds on the bosom of their mother. "O sister," said the little one, as she gazed at the sky, "I wish that the Dew Elves, as they wander lightly by, Would bring me a star; for they never grow dim, And the Father does not need them to burn round him. The shining drops of dew the Elves bring each day And place in my bosom, so soon pass away; But a star would glitter brightly through the long summer hours, And I should be fairer than all my sister flowers. That were better far than the dew-drops that fall On the high and the low, and come alike to all. I would be fair and stately, with a bright star to shine And give a queenly air to this crimson robe of mine." And proudly she cried, "These fire-flies shall be My jewels, since the stars can never come to me." Just then a tiny dew-drop that hung o'er the dell On the breast of the bud like a soft star fell; But impatiently she flung it away from her leaf, And it fell on her mother like a tear of grief, While she folded to her breast, with wilful pride, A glittering fire-fly that hung by her side. "Heed," said the mother rose, "daughter mine, Why shouldst thou seek for beauty not thine? The Father hath made thee what thou now art; And what he most loveth is a sweet, pure heart. Then why dost thou take with such discontent The loving gift which he to thee hath sent? For the cool fresh dew will render thee far More lovely and sweet than the brightest star; They were made for Heaven, and can never come to shine Like the fire-fly thou hast in that foolish breast of thine. O my foolish little bud, do listen to thy mother; Care only for true beauty, and seek for no other. There will be grief and trouble in that wilful little heart; Unfold thy leaves, my daughter, and let the fly depart." But the proud little bud would have her own will, And folded the fire-fly more closely still; Till the struggling insect tore open the vest Of purple and green, that covered her breast. When the sun came up, she saw with grief The blooming of her sister bud leaf by leaf. While she, once as fair and bright as the rest, Hung her weary head down on her wounded breast. Bright grew the sunshine, and the soft summer air Was filled with the music of flowers singing there; But faint grew the little bud with thirst and pain, And longed for the cool dew; but now 't was in vain. Then bitterly she wept for her folly and pride, As drooping she stood by her fair sister's side. Then the rose mother leaned the weary little head On her bosom to rest, and tenderly she said: "Thon hast learned, my little bud, that, whatever may betide, Thou canst win thyself no joy by passion or by pride. The loving Father sends the sunshine and the shower, That thou mayst become a perfect little flower;-- The sweet dews to feed thee, the soft wind to cheer, And the earth as a pleasant home, while thou art dwelling here. Then shouldst thou not be grateful for all this kindly care, And strive to keep thyself most innocent and fair? Then seek, my little blossom, to win humility; Be fair without, be pure within, and thou wilt happy be. So when the quiet Autumn of thy fragrant life shall come, Thou mayst pass away, to bloom in the Flower Spirits' home." Then from the mother's breast, where it still lay hid, Into the fading bud the dew-drop gently slid; Stronger grew the little form, and happy tears fell, As the dew did its silent work, and the bud grew well, While the gentle rose leaned, with motherly pride, O'er the fair little ones that bloomed at her side.
Night came again, and the fire-flies flew;
"The little bud's lesson shall teach us how sad a thing is pride, and that humility alone can bring true happiness to flower and Fairy. You shall come next, Zephyr."
And the little Fairy, who lay rocking to and fro upon a fluttering vine-leaf, thus began her story:--
"As I lay resting in the bosom of a cowslip that bent above the brook, a little wind, tired of play, told me this tale of
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