And as the woman bent down to pick the flowers, the Rose-bush hit her in the face with a twig, stretching out all her thorns like a cat stretches out its claws, and scratched up the woman’s face.
She screamed aloud. The woman did not want to cease from her task, but the Rose-bush was as willful as she; wherever the hand of the woman reached, a large thorn sprang out and scratched her till she bled. [[9]]
At last the woman, with torn clothes, with scratched, dirty hands, had to turn back home.
The Rose-bush was completely tired from the heated struggle. Her many green arms hung limply, her flowers were paler, she sighed softly. Yet she thought more deeply and arrived at a mighty resolution.
Late in the evening the Wind came flying to bid the Rose-bush good-night, and the Rose-bush said to him solemnly, “Listen to me, Brother Wind, I will follow your advice, I will no longer bloom for the idlers.”
The Wind caressed the leaves and flowers of the Rose-bush with gentle hands, saying earnestly, “Poor little Rose-bush, will you have the strength for that? You will have to suffer a great deal.”
“Yes,” replied the Rose-bush, “I know it. But I will have the strength. Only you must come every day and sing your song of freedom, so as always to renew my courage.”
The Wind promised to do this.
Then followed bad days for the Rose-bush, for she had decided not to drink any water, that she might cease blooming. When her friend came with the water pot she drew her little roots close to herself, that no drops might touch them. Ah, how she suffered! she thought she would faint. In the day-time the sun shone, and she became more thirsty every hour, always longing more for water. And at last, at evening came the longed for drink, but she dared not sip the full draught, she had to turn away from the cool precious liquid, to thirst again. After a while she thought she could not endure it. But the wind came flying, fanning her, singing softly and gently, “Be brave, be brave! You will conquer!”