“That may be so among bees and ants,” the man sighed deeply, “yet among men it is different. There the people receive just enough to keep them from starving—all else belongs to the master. The master builds splendid mansions, plants lovely gardens, buys flowers.”
“Is that really true?”
“Yes.”
The man went back to his work and the Rose-bush began to meditate. Yet the longer she thought, the worse her temper grew. Yes, even though she usually had very fine manners, she spoke roughly to a bee who wished to visit her. The bee was still young and timid, and flew off in fright as fast as his wings could carry him. Then the Rose-bush was sorry for her rough behavior, because she was naturally friendly, and also because she might have asked the bee whether the man had spoken the truth. [[6]]
While she was so engrossed in thought, suddenly some one shook her and a mischievous voice asked, “Well, my friend, what are you dreaming about?”
The Rose-bush looked up with her countless eyes and recognized the Wind, that stood laughing before her shaking his head so that his long hair flew about.
“Wind, beloved Wind!” joyfully exclaimed the Rose-bush, “You come as though you had been called. Tell me whether the man has spoken the truth.” And she reported everything the man had said to her.
The Wind suddenly became serious and whistled through his teeth so violently that the branches of the Rose-bush began to tremble. “Yes,” declared he, “all this is true, and even worse. I come here from all over the whole world and see everything. Often I am so seized with anger that I begin to rave; then the stupid people say, ‘My! what a storm!’ ”
“And the rich people can really buy everything?”
“Yes,” growled the wind. Then suddenly he laughed. “Not me. They can’t capture and imprison me. I am the friend of the poor. I fly to all lands. In big cities, I station myself before ill-smelling cellars and roar into them ‘Freedom! Justice!’ To tired, overworked people I sing a lullaby, ‘Be courageous, keep together, fight, you will conquer!’ Then they feel new strength, they know a comrade has spoken to them.” He tittered, and all the leaves in the garden stirred. “The rich would like to imprison me, because I carry the message, but I whistle at them. At night I rattle their windows so that they become frightened in their soft beds, and then I cry, ‘Ho ho, you idlers, your time is coming. Make room for the workers of the world!’ At that they are very frightened, draw the silken covers over their ears, try to comfort themselves: ‘It was only the wind!’ ” [[7]]