The poet sings that “his heart dances with the daffodils.” Lily’s heart danced, one morning, when she found a dandelion among the grasses in her yard,—a real yellow dandelion, with all its golden petals spread out.
Just then, one of her playmates looked over the fence, and put out her hand.
“Do give it to me,” she said. “I sha’n’t like you a bit, if you don’t: I shall think you are just as stingy—”
“But it’s all I have,” said Lily; “I can’t give it away. I can’t. Wait till to-morrow, and there’ll be some more out. They’re growing. There’ll be some all round to-morrow or next week.”
“To-morrow! I want it now, to-day,” said her friend, “to-day’s better than to-morrow.”
Lily looked at the child and then at the dandelion. “I suppose it would be mean to keep it,” she said, “but it is so lovely—can’t you wait?”
“Oh, well, keep it, you stingy girl!”
“Come and pick it yourself, then,” said Lily, with tears in her eyes.
The next day, when Lily went into the yard, there were a dozen golden dandelions, like stars in the grass, and a little blue violet was blooming all alone by itself.