Tenderly the stream bore it away to a grassy nook on its banks, and there it placed the tiny leaf, alone in its quiet rest.
PARABLE EIGHTH.
THE AMBITIOUS WILD-FLOWER—AMBITION.
'Who'll buy my roses? they're lovely and fair,
They're Nature's own bloom, and are fed on fresh air.'
o sang a little girl, as she walked along a shady lane, carrying a basket of those glorious flowers which she was taking to a friend as a birthday gift; and so on she went, singing her song of Roses, sweet Roses, little thinking that others were listening to her melody (besides the birds), or that her simple words would raise angry feelings in the very flowers themselves.
'Oh yes!' exclaimed a small Wild-flower—its name I will not tell; 'oh yes!' she repeated, waiting until the singer was out of hearing; 'always Roses, or Violets, or Lilies—no one ever composes songs about—us—we are only common flowers.'