“When will it be spring?” asked the flower.
Soon many other little sunbeams tapped on the door of the brown house and the flower asked each of them,
“When will it be spring?”
But the ground was covered with snow and every night there was ice on the water. Spring seemed so far away that the little flower sighed and said impatiently:
“How long it is! How long it is! I feel quite cribbed and cramped. I must stretch out a little. I must rise up; lift the latch and look out. Then I shall say merrily to the spring, ‘Good morning!’”
Now the walls of the flower’s house had been softened by the rain, warmed by the earth and snow and tapped upon by the sunbeams. So when the flower within pushed and pushed against the walls they gently gave way. Then up from under the earth shot the flower with a pale green bud on its tender stalk and long slender leaves that curled around it for a screen. The glittering snow was very cold but easier to push through than the solid brown earth.
“Welcome, welcome!” sang the evening sunbeam. “Welcome, sweet little blossom.”
The flower lifted its head above the snow into the world of light; the sunbeams cheered it with kisses until it unfolded itself white as the snow and decked with green stripes.
“Thou art a little too early,” said the wind and the weather. “We still hold sway. It is entirely too cold for thee.”