The air took all their words and scattered them about, far and wide.
"What strange things happen to one!" said the thistle bush. "My first-born went to live in a buttonhole, my last-born in a frame! I wonder what is to become of me."
The old donkey, standing by the roadside, cast loving glances at the thistle and said, "Come to me, my sweetheart, for I cannot go to you; my tether is too short!"
But the thistle bush made no answer. It grew more and more thoughtful, and it thought as far ahead as Christmas, till its budding thoughts opened into flower.
"When one's children are safely housed, a mother is quite content to stay beyond the fence."
"That is true," said the sunshine; "and you will be well placed, never fear."
"In a flowerpot or in a frame?" asked the thistle.
"In a story," answered the sunshine. And here is the story!