Rosebud and Myrtle permitted themselves to linger long about the flower-garden. Many of the plants had budded, a few had bloomed. Rosebud bent over them, touching tenderly their soft green leaves, and persuading them, so Myrtle affirmed, to grow faster, and even, as he further declared, whispering to them of what pretty color they should tint their blossoms!
The children of the shore, with their baskets, had gathered around to talk with Rosebud, to wonder at the growth of the plants, and to admire all they saw. Every child must examine every flower that had bloomed, marvel at its beauty, and all were longing for the next buds to open.
While they were thus assembled, talking earnestly, granny suddenly appeared among them.
Her dress was torn, the blue blanket had fallen from her head, the gray locks streamed about her withered face, and her eyes glared fiercely. The children with looks of affright shrank from the old woman. Coming near them, she shook her fist angrily at Rosebud.
“And is it thus you work when I am away?” she cried. “I’ll teach you!”
And with that she hobbled in among the flowers, and began beating them with her staff, pulling them up, and throwing them far and wide. In a few moments the pretty garden was destroyed!
Poor Rosebud! she had loved them so! It seemed as if those were parts of herself which were thus cruelly tossed upon the sands. So much had she lived with them, caressed them, talked to them, that they were to her almost like living beings.
But not a word did she say, neither did one of the rest dare speak to the old woman in her fury.
“Be off! Be off now! the whole pack of you! Take your baskets and be gone, I say!” she cried, stamping her foot with rage.
Mournfully the little group moved toward the shore, Myrtle and Rosebud among them. For they dared not stay, even to witness the death of their flowers.