“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.”