The stately vine waved her tendrils and fanned herself gently. She couldn't help seeing that this gourd person was at least polite.
But the hardest thing in the world to bear is the idea that you are of no use to anybody. And it was this which hurt the robust gourd vine. Not a bird came for honey, and yet they hovered in ecstasy over Lady Trumpet. Humming-birds, as brilliant as flashing gems, came whirring like rays from a diamond shot from the sky. They would plunge their long beaks deep into the flowers to get the nectar, and then dart away, only to return again for more. Other beautiful creatures came to the deserted garden and sang madly with delight, simply trying to make their melody as intoxicating as Lady Trumpet's perfume.
But they studiously avoided Sunny Gourd. His leaves, big and green and very rough, and his sinewy stems, his modest flowers and the bitter juice of them, were odious to everybody. Yet he was green as emerald, and he had made a picture of his end of the cabin.
"But the birds, how I love them!" he kept saying to himself. "And they will have none of me!"
At last, however, to his great consolation, there came a little green bee to visit him.
"Well, well!" it buzzed. "Here you are! Just what I want!"
And the little visitor tried to hang in every flower. His visits lasted all day.
"Yes, I'm only a low ground bee," he remarked, after Sunny Gourd had confided in him. "Those aristocratic honey-bees don't recognize me at all. But I don't care. And you mustn't care. The birds will be mightily obliged to you yet."
And without a word more, he was off. Nor would this handsome little fellow ever explain what he meant. He would only say: "You just wait!"
Nor were there many weeks of waiting. For the autumn came, and the pinch of cold nights with it. Things began to shrivel, but the wonderful fruit of the gourd vine turned from green to yellow; lovely as gold. Sunny Gourd had produced a hundred dippers: some with handles curled and long, some straight as rulers, and some that were short and thick. They hung in yellow companies from the eaves trough, or they clustered over the roof. The best of them grew against the chimney, and yet all were as gourds should be, stout of shell and beautifully rounded.