So the angel wandered among the flowers all the day long and talked with them. And toward evening he came to a little grave which was freshly made.
"Do not tread upon us," said the violets. "Let us cluster here over this sacred mound and sing our lullabies."
"To whom do you sing, little flowers?" asked the angel.
"We sing to the child that lies sleeping beneath us," replied the violets. "All through the seasons, even under the snows of winter, we nestle close to this mound and sing to the sleeping child. None but he hears us, and his soul is lulled by our gentle music."
"But do you not often long for other occupation, for loftier service?" inquired the angel.
"Nay," said the violets, "we are content, for we love to sing to the little, sleeping child."
The angel was touched by the sweet humility of these modest flowers. He wept, and his tears fell upon the grave, and the flowers drank up the angel tears and sang more sweetly than before, but so softly that only the sleeping child heard them.
And when the angel flew back to heaven, he cherished a violet in his bosom.