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.”