“Little breeze,” she said, in friendly tones, “will you do me a service?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the breeze. “I shall be glad to have something to do.”
“It is the merest trifle,” said the poppy. “All I want of you is to give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds may fly out of the trap-doors.”
“All right,” said the breeze.
And the seeds flew out in all directions. The stalk snapped, it is true; but the poppy did not mind about that.
“Good-bye,” said the breeze, and would have run on farther.
“Wait a moment,” said the poppy. “Promise me first that you will not tell the others, else they might get hold of the same idea, and then there would be less room for my seeds.”
“I am mute as the grave,” answered the breeze, running off.
“Ho! ho!” said the harebell. “Haven’t you time to do me a little, tiny service?”
“Well,” said the breeze, “what is it?”