There was once a buttercup shining in the green grass. “You’re a little
golden sun that turns everything into gold,” said a child who saw it;
“perhaps you can tell a golden story.”
And would you believe it? The buttercup began without waiting a single
moment: “A certain old grandmother sits out of doors every afternoon in
her chair. The hands resting in her lap are wrinkled and so is her face,
and her hair is as white as the driven snow. All of a sudden two small
smooth hands steal round from the back of her chair and cover her eyes.
And grandmother immediately says, ‘It’s my sweet grandchild; I’m sure of
it, because she never fails to visit me,’ and she reaches up to touch a
golden head.”
“Why, the story’s about me,” cried the little girl; “grandmother’s guess
is never wrong.”
But the buttercup went on without pretending to hear. “Then the child
runs around in front of the chair and kisses her old grandmother. There
is gold in that kiss, I am certain,” said the buttercup, “because it
leaves a mark of itself on grandmother’s face; it smoothes out the
wrinkles and it makes her eyes shine with joy.
“That’s my golden story,” said the buttercup; “every child may go home
and play it.”
And the little child was happy that what she did had been put into a
golden story.
—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN