"No," said the apple-tree, "if you had merry red cheeks, people would no longer harbor you from pity."
She got up sadly and pursued her road. Then she came to a garden hard by a river, in which there was such song of birds that it made one's heart leap for joy.
"Oh, you dear little birds," cried Sorrow, "give me some of your lovely song, that I may make mankind glad."
"No, dear child," twittered the birds; "if you did not come so silently and go so quietly, men would not forget you so soon, and begin to notice that you are Sorrow, and bring them grief."
And yet further roamed poor Sorrow and came to a tall wood. Its scent was delicious, and it was so pleasant to walk on the thick moss beneath the trees. Here and there sun-gleams stole through the whispering foliage, and trembled and danced upon the moss, gilding the faded leaves. It was beautiful! The child leant wearily against a tree.
"Here I may lodge and bring no grief; here I may rest, and no one look himself ill at me."
A sunbeam came leaping through the leaves, looked into the dim, lovely eyes, sprang into them, illumined them brightly, and pierced down into Sorrow's very heart. The whole wood saw the wonderful gleaming of that tender girlish face, and rustled for pleasure and admiration. Sorrow did not know that she had grown more beautiful, but she felt the sunbeam tremble hot and joyous in her heart.
"Oh, dear wood," she cried, aloud, "give me but a single one of all your thousand sunbeams, and I shall be happy."
Of a sudden all grew deadly still in the wood; the trees looked at one another sadly, the sunbeam fled from Sorrow's eyes, touched a lustrous lizard, and then hid beneath tall ferns.