“Once upon a time a little tulip lived in a lovely big garden. It was the middle blossom of the front row of a bed of beautiful, pale yellow tulips, whose petals shone like the softest velvet. But alas for this poor little front tulip! It had broad red streaks running down the middle of each of its petals, making them seem bold and flaunting and common. And none of the other tulips in the bed would speak to it; they had not even a word of sympathy to offer.
“The lady who owned the garden had taken great pains to have this particular tulip bed planted with just the shade of flowers that she wanted, and it was such a disappointment to have had the very front blossom of all turn out to be so different and ordinary. She used to visit the garden every day with her little daughter. Standing in front of the bed they would discuss the ugly little tulip.
“‘I have half a mind to pluck the flower,’ she said one day. ‘It looks so horrid that it quite spoils the effect of the bed. But all the other blossoms are out and if I took this one away it would leave such a gap.’
“‘The flower can’t help having red streaks in it, mother,’ replied the little girl. ‘P’rhaps it feels bad at being different from all the rest! But it is ugly,’ she added.
“The poor little tulip drooped its head and pined. It is very, very hard to be thought ugly and different; and harder still not to be wanted. So the tulip drooped and faded and dropped its petals long before any of the other flowers in the bed.
“And when the lady found the red and yellow petals lying on the ground she exclaimed:—‘Why, how odd that this tulip should have died first. I always thought that those common, hardy varieties lasted longest!’
“Her little girl picked up one of the scattered petals and stroked it.
“‘See, mother, it is really very pretty,’ she said. ‘I wonder if the flower was not nicer than we thought after all?’
“Although the lady had spoken of the tulip as dead, because the blossom was gone, of course we all know that it was not dead. But that down, down in its brown little root, or bulb, under the warm, moist earth, its life was throbbing as strong as ever. The tulip heard the little girl’s words, therefore, and was somewhat comforted by them. But it still mourned over the red streaks down the middle of its petals, for it was quite sure that it had not meant to be that way, but soft, pale yellow like all the other tulips in the bed.
“‘You ought not to take it so to heart,’ whispered a gentle shower to the falling petals, and it bathed them in soft, warm drops. ‘Your petals are red because the sun has kissed them.’