The little fellows, very sturdy and determined, were holding their leaves out exactly as if they were spreading their palms upward to catch the sunlight in their hands.
Time went on and the seeds became vines. The old chimney, built of sticks and mud, and very unsightly, was revived to new feelings.
"Not since my supper fires went out have I felt so much alive," it moaned as though it would like to be really pleased.
"If only I could smoke again, I should feel completely contented."
Soon the chimney and the eaves were green with gourd vine. Summer was underway, with its long hot mornings and its wonderful nights. Lady Trumpet-Vine was covered with buds, and she was already telling of how she would be visited by all the most beautiful creatures in the world.
"But nobody'll visit your flowers," she said to the gourd vine. "Nobody wants to. You're a bitter, ugly, common vine. That's what you are."
"I have some very respectable relatives, just the same," sang out Sunny Gourd, determined not to be utterly demeaned. "There's Mr. Watermelon and Mr. Cucumber. They are very well esteemed, you know. I think they are appreciated perhaps almost as much as you are."
"But not for their beauty, my dear," was the retort. "I am loved by all the world for my magnificence. Birds and men know beauty when they see it. Trust me in that."
Then, almost in anger, such was her queenly pride, Lady Trumpet burst a few of her buds. The full open flowers were wonderful, and a perfume exhaled from them which made her neighbor dizzy.
"It's no use," Sunny Gourd sighed. "I can't do that. My flowers are merely little no-account white things. No perfume to speak of. But I don't care, I've reached the roof anyway, and I can look up at the sky and watch the birds in these trees, and have a good time to myself. And I can look at you, too, Mrs. Trumpet."