THE GRASS, THE BROOK, AND THE DANDELIONS.
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
THE sparkling, babbling, baby-brook that ran gayly through the meadow whispered to the sleeping grass, one lovely spring morning, just as dawn was breaking, “Wake up, wake up, and see what May has scattered over you.” And the grass, awaking from a pleasant dream of summer, beheld a number of bright, yellow, star-shaped dandelions, smiling in the early sunshine.
“Welcome a thousand times,” said its many blades in a chorus of delight. “How sweet and fresh you look, with the dew-drops clinging to your dainty petals of shining gold. But you may well look bright and happy,” they continued in less cheerful tones, “for you are flowers, and flowers so beloved by the sun that he paints you his own beautiful color.”
“And are you not happy, too?” asked the dandelions, in innocent surprise.
“Yes, we are happy,” answered the grass, with a little sigh; “but we would be so much happier if we were flowers!”
“We are nothing, you know, but common grass, with no hope of being anything better.”
“No change for us. No budding and turning into sweet, blue, white, pink, or golden blossoms.”
“Grass we are, and grass we must remain until the end of our days.”
“For shame!” cried the dandelions, their honest faces all aglow. “‘Common grass,’ indeed! Dear May told us all about you, and the blissful mission that is yours, only yours, before she dropped us here.”
“You have been chosen to clothe the whole earth, while the flowers you envy are only the ornaments that cling to the lovely robes you weave.”
“Surely you would not have been so chosen if you were not beautiful, and most beautiful.”
“Why are we never called so, then?” asked the grass. “Even the children never notice us; but mark our words, the moment they see you, they’ll shout, ‘O, the pretty, pretty dandelions!’”
“They don’t call us ‘pretty’—O, no, indeed!”
“Nothing is ever said about us.”
“We’re grass, that’s all. No one ever gathers us.”
“We are never made into posies or worn in waving ringlets.”
“Nobody admires us and nobody praises us.”
“Not so, not so,” murmured the brooklet, soft and low, and its words all flowed in tune and rhyme. “I’ve sung your praises many a time. And bird and bee oft tell to me, as through the meadow and field I pass, how much they love the beautiful grass. So don’t get blue, whatever you do, for green’s the color, dear grass, for you. And, believe me, everywhere you grow, a joy you bring, I know ’tis so. And now, I pray, bend over this way, and take the kiss I have for you.”
The grass bent gracefully toward the brook, and took not one, but three kisses, and then the chattering little thing went dancing on its way.
Early that evening, as the setting sun was sinking slowly in the west, a strong, sunburnt young fellow, with a merry twinkle in his bright brown eyes, came into the meadow, and began cutting some sods,—whistling as he worked,—and packing them away in a wheelbarrow he had brought with him.
The grass that had talked with the dandelions, and been kissed by the brook in the morning, was the last to be cut, and so was placed upon the top of the load.
“O, what can this mean?” asked its many tiny blades, this time in a chorus of sorrow. “Why are we taken from our home? Alas! we never knew how much we loved our beautiful meadow until now, when we are leaving it forever. Where can we be going?”
But just then the man took up the handles of the wheelbarrow, and the grass only had time to wave a last farewell as he trundled it away.
“Farewell,” called the dandelions; “farewell,” murmured the brook; and “farewell,” sighed the grass that was left behind.
The young man wheeled the barrow into the front yard of a newly-built little cottage on the other side of the road.
There was here no sign of anything green, but the brown earth had been dug and nicely raked, and the grass heard it saying softly to itself in joyful tones, “O, now I shall be dressed at last—here comes the beautiful, friendly grass to cover me.”
Then the grass thought of what the dandelions had said.
Down went the sods on the ground, and away went the barrow for some more; and again and again it went, until at least a dozen loads had been brought; and then, taking off his coat, the very brown young man, whistling merrily all the time, began to make a grass plot.
Soon all the sods were put down; and the tiny garden commenced already to look bright and cheerful.
“Jenny!” called the brown-faced, brown-eyed, brown-haired (wasn’t he brown?) gardener, as he took off his hat to wipe his brow.
A rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed young woman came to the cottage door in answer to his call, with a rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed baby girl in her arms. “O, the beautiful grass!” cried she, when she saw what had been done; and, “Pretty, pretty!” said the baby girl, clapping her fat, dimpled hands.
Then the grass thought of what the brook had sung.
“It makes the place look pleasant at once,” said the man, leaning on his spade and looking smilingly at his work. “But just wait till we have a good shower, and then it will be as green as—as—green as—well, as green as grass, for I don’t know anything greener,” he added, laughing. “And I say, Jenny, what a splendid place it’ll be for baby to tumble about on! You can latch the gate, and then she can roll about here as much as she pleases—bless her little heart!”
“Bess ’er ittie heart!” echoed baby, with funny gravity.
“Yes, indeed,” answered the happy mother, kissing the soft, sweet red mouth of her darling. “She’ll have many a merry hour here, with the daisies and dandelions. How thankful we ought to be,” she went on a moment after, her face growing serious with a feeling of gratitude, “to Our Father in Heaven for covering the earth with such a lovely garment—so soft for the weary feet, so refreshing to the tired eyes! And do you know, Ralph, I never feel so sorry for the poor in great cities as I do in summer, when I think of them shut in tall, dreary brick houses, from the windows of which they can see nothing but paving-stones, no beautiful grass, or else such little struggling patches that the sight makes them sadder than ever.”
“There, what did we tell you?” asked a voice so tiny that only the grass heard—and lo! a dandelion that had clung to its friends, and so been carried along to share their new abode.
“Yes—yes, you were right,” answered the grass. “We see how blessed we are, and now we wouldn’t change places with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed.”
