Once upon a time there was a little primrose who grew all alone on a sunny
bank. All around her were primroses in clusters, but she was a solitary
flower.
Having no brothers or sisters to talk to and no very near neighbours, she
made a confidant of a bee, who would often sit with her for several minutes
at a time. He was brusque and opinionated, but he was wise too, and, having
wings, knew the world; and she never tired of hearing of his travels.
He told her of gardens where flowers of every kind and sweetness bloomed.
"Not like you," he said--"not wild flowers that no one values, but choice,
wonderful, aristocratic flowers that are picked out of catalogues and cost
money and need attention from a gardener."
"What is a gardener?" the primrose asked.
"A gardener is a man who does nothing but look after flowers," said the
bee. "He brings them water and picks off the dead leaves, and all the time
he is thinking how to make them more beautiful."
"How splendid!" said the primrose.
And the bee told her of the houses in these gardens, with pleasant sunny
rooms, and pictures, and flowers in vases to cheer the eyes of the rich
people who lived there.
"How splendid!" said the primrose again. "I wish I could see it all. I
should love to be in a vase in a beautiful room and be admired by rich
people."
"You're too simple," said the bee. "You haven't a chance. You've got to
stay where you are till you die."
"Why shouldn't I have wings like you?" said the primrose.
"How absurd!" replied the bee as he flew away.
But the next day the primrose looked up and saw a most wonderful thing. A
primrose that really had wings! A flying primrose! A primrose that could go
anywhere just like the bee. It darted hither and thither so gaily,
alighting where it wished and then soaring up again right into the blue sky
above the earth.
The solitary primrose called to it, but it did not hear, and was soon out
of sight.
"So primroses needn't always stop where they are till they die," she said
to herself. "Why did the bee deceive me? If I were like that I could see
the garden and the gardener and the pretty gay sitting-rooms and the rich
people."
She waited impatiently for the bee's return, and when he came she told him
about the aviator.
"He was so splendid," she said, "so big and strong, and he flew
beautifully. How can I get wings, too?"
"Pooh!" said the bee. "That wasn't a primrose. That was a brimstone
butterfly; and as for flying--why, he can't compare with me. I could beat
him every time: hundred yards, quarter-mile, mile, long
distance--everything."
"He looked just like a wonderful big primrose," said the solitary flower
wistfully.
"That's because you've got only one eye," said the bee. "He was a butterfly
right enough;" and he hurried away laughing at the silliness of her
mistake.
But that day the little primrose had part of her wish; for a party of
children came into her corner of the wood and began to pick the flowers
with cries of delight.
"Here's one all alone!" said a small girl. "I shall pick that for mother."
Straightway the primrose was torn from its root and held tightly in a hand
which was far too hot to be pleasant.
Down the road the children went, and the primrose looked as well as she
could at the hedges and the trees.
"So this is the world," she said to herself. "It seems really interesting,
but I should like it better if I didn't feel so faint."
At last they came to a garden gate and passed through it, up a long path,
with strange flowers on each side, which the primrose saw mistily, for she
was now really ill.
"I am sure it is all very beautiful," she murmured, "but I know I shall die
if I don't have some water soon."
And then they entered a room, and the little girl hurried up to a lady and
gave her the solitary primrose. "It was growing all alone," she said, "so I
brought it for you."
"Put it into a vase at once," said the mother, "or it will die." And the
primrose was placed in water, and at once began to revive.
Then she looked about her and saw what a nice room it was, and was happy.
The next morning in came the bee with a great fluster and bumped all over
the room.
"Hullo," he said to the little primrose, "you here?"
She told him all her adventures.
"Well, what I said is right, isn't it?" the bee remarked. "It's all very
jolly here, isn't it?"
"I suppose so, but I wish I didn't feel so weak. I never had an ache when I
was in the wood."
"Ah, but you weren't among the nobs then," said the bee; "make the most of
your time while you're here, for it won't be for long, you know."
"Come and see me to-morrow," the little primrose whimpered. "I feel so
lonely here. I was happier in the wood."
"You won't be alive to-morrow," said the bee cheerily. "But never mind, you
have seen the world." And out he bashed again, blowing his motor-horn to
clear the way.
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[Illustration: OUR YOUNG VETERANS.
_He._ "I SAY, YOUR GRANNIE SEEMS RATHER PUT OUT TO-NIGHT. WHAT'S UP?"
_She._ "HUSH! POOR DEAR, SHE'S JUST HEARD MY OTHER GRANNIE IS ENGAGED AND
SHE'S SO AFRAID SHE MAY BE LEFT ON THE SHELF."]
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