“I don’t belong to you!” exclaimed the Rose-bush. “Don’t I belong to the person who has taken care of me and troubled himself about me? Then to whom do I belong?”
The man pointed with his hand to the gleaming white house among the trees and replied, “To the gracious lady who lives there.” [[4]]
“That can’t be,” replied the Rose-bush. “I have never seen this lady. It is not she who has sprinkled water on me, loosened the earth at my roots, bound together my twigs. Then how can I belong to her?” [[5]]
“She has bought you.”
“That is something different. Then the poor woman must have worked hard to save so much money. Good! Half of my blossoms shall belong to her.”
The man laughed a little sadly, saying, “Oh, beloved Rose-bush, you don’t yet know the world, I can see that. The lady did not lift a finger to earn the money.”
“Then how did she get it?”
“She owns a great factory in which countless workers drudge; from there comes her wealth.”
The Rose-bush became angry, lifted a bough up high, threatened the man with her thorn-claws, shouting, “I see you enjoy yourself at my expense because I am still young and inexperienced, telling me untruths about the world of men. Still I am not so stupid, I have observed ants and bees, and know that to each belongs the things for which he has worked.”