Now thou shalt hear!--Out in the country, close by the high road, there
stood a pleasure-house,--thou hast, no doubt, seen it thyself. In the
front is a little garden full of flowers, and this is fenced in with
painted palisades. Close beside these, in a hollow, there grew, all
among the loveliest green grass, a little tuft of daisies. The sun
shone upon it just as warmly and as sweetly as upon the large and rich
splendid flowers within the garden, and, therefore, it grew hour by
hour. One morning it opened its little shining white flower-leaves,
which looked just like rays of light all round the little yellow sun
in the inside. It never once thought that nobody saw it down there in
the grass, and that it was a poor, despised flower! No, nothing of the
kind! It was so very happy; turned itself round towards the warm sun,
looked up, and listened to the lark which sang in the blue air.
The little daisy was as happy as if it had been some great holiday, and
yet it was only a Monday. All the children were in school, and while
they sat upon the benches learning their lessons, it also sat upon its
little green stalk, and learned from the warm sun and from every thing
around it, how good God is. And it seemed to it quite right that the
little lark sang so intelligibly and so beautifully every thing which
it felt in stillness; and it looked up with a sort of reverence to
the happy bird, which could sing and fly, but it was not at all vexed
because it could not do the same.
"I see it and hear it," thought the daisy; "the sun shines upon me, and
the winds kiss me! O, what a many gifts I enjoy!"
Inside the garden paling there were such a great many stiff, grand
flowers; and all the less fragrance they had the more they seemed to
swell themselves out. The pionies blew themselves out that they might
be bigger than the roses; but it is not size which does every thing.
The tulips had the most splendid colors, and they knew it too, and
held themselves so upright on purpose that people should see them all
the better. They never paid the least attention to the little daisy
outside, but it looked at them all the more, and thought, "How rich
they are, and how beautiful! Yes, to be sure, the charming bird up
there must fly down and pay them a visit. Thank God! that I am so
near that I can see all the glory!" And while she was thinking these
thoughts--"Quirrevit!" down came the lark flying,--but not down to the
pionies and the tulips: no! but down into the grass to the poor little
daisy; which was so astonished by pure joy, that it did not know what
it should think.
The little bird danced round about, and sang, "Nay, but the grass is in
flower! and see, what a sweet little blossom, with a golden heart and a
silver jerkin on!"--for the yellow middle of the daisy looked as if it
were of gold, and the little leaves round about were shining and silver
white.
So happy as the little daisy was it is quite impossible to describe!
The bird kissed it with its beak, sang before it, and then flew up
again into the blue air. It required a whole quarter of an hour before
the daisy could come to itself again. Half bashfully, and yet with
inward delight, it looked into the garden to the other flowers; they
had actually seen the honor and the felicity which she had enjoyed;
they could certainly understand, she thought, what a happiness it was.
But the tulips stood yet just as stiffly as before, and their faces
were so peaked and so red!--for they were quite vexed. The pionies were
quite thick-headed, too! it was a good thing that they could not talk,
or else the daisy would have been regularly scolded. The poor little
flower, however, could see very plainly that they were not in a good
humor, and that really distressed her. At that very moment there came
a girl into the garden with a great knife in her hand, which was very
sharp and shining, and she went all among the tulips, and she cut off
first one and then another.
"Ah!" sighed the little daisy, "that was very horrible; now all is over
with them!"
So the girl went away with the tulips. The daisy was glad that it grew
in the grass, and was a little mean flower; it felt full of gratitude,
and when the sun set, it folded its leaves, slept, and dreamed the
whole night long about the sun and the little bird.
Next morning, the flower again, full of joy, spread out all its white
leaves, like small arms, towards the air and the light; it recognised
the bird's voice; but the song of the bird was very sorrowful. Yes,
the poor little bird had good reason for being sad! it had been taken
prisoner, and now sat in a cage close by the open window of the
pleasure-house. It sang about flying wherever it would in freedom and
bliss; it sang about the young green corn in the fields, and about the
charming journeys which it used to make up in the blue air upon its
hovering wings. The poor bird was heavy at heart, and was captive in a
cage.
The little daisy wished so sincerely that it could be of any service;
but it was difficult to tell how. In sympathizing with the lark, the
daisy quite forgot how beautiful was every thing around it--how warmly
the sun shone, and how beautifully white were its own flower-leaves.
Ah! it could think of nothing but of the captive bird, for which it
was not able to do any thing.
Just then came two little boys out of the garden; one of them had a
knife in his hand, large and sharp, like that which the girl had, and
with which she cut off the tulips. They went straight up to the little
daisy, which could not think what they wanted.
"Here we can get a beautiful grass turf for the lark," said one of the
boys; and began deeply to cut out a square around the daisy-root, so
that it was just in the middle of the turf.
"Break off the flower!" said the other boy; and the daisy trembled for
very fear of being broken off, and thus losing its life; when it would
so gladly live and go with the turf into the cage of the captive lark.
"Nay, let it be where it is!" said the other boy; "it makes it look so
pretty!"
And so it was left there, and was taken into the cage to the lark.
But the poor bird made loud lamentations over its lost freedom, and
struck the wires of the cage with its wings. The little daisy could
not speak, could not say one consoling word, however gladly it would
have done so. Thus passed the forenoon.
"There is no water here," said the captive lark; "they are all gone
out, and have forgotten to give me a drop to drink! my throat is dry
and burning! it is fire and ice within me, and the air is so heavy! Ah!
I shall die away from the warm sunshine, from the fresh green leaves,
from all the glorious things which God has created!" and with that
it bored its little beak down into the cool turf to refresh itself a
little. At that moment it caught sight of the daisy, nodded to it,
kissed it with its beak, and said, "Thou also must wither here, thou
poor little flower! Thou and the little plot of grass, which they have
given me for the whole world which I had out there! Every little blade
of grass may be to me a green tree, every one of thy little white
leaves a fragrant flower! Ah! you only tell me how much I have lost!"
"Ah! who can comfort him!" thought the daisy, but could not move a
leaf; and yet the fragrance which was given forth from its delicate
petals was much sweeter than is usual in such flowers. The bird
remarked this, and when, overcome by the agony of thirst and misery, it
tore up every green blade of grass, it touched not the little flower.
Evening came, and yet no one brought a single drop of water to the
poor bird. It stretched out its beautiful wings, fluttered them
convulsively, and its song was a melancholy wailing; its little head
bowed down towards the flower, and its heart broke from thirst and
longing. The little flower knew this not; before the evening was ended,
it had folded its petals together and slept upon the earth, overcome
with sickness and sorrow.
Not until the next morning came the boys, and when they saw that the
bird was dead they wept, wept many tears, and dug for it a handsome
grave, which they adorned with leaves of flowers. The corpse of the
bird was laid in a beautiful red box. It was to be buried royally, the
poor bird! which, when full of life and singing its glorious song, they
forgot, and let it pine in a cage, and suffer thirst--and now they did
him honor, and shed many tears over him!
But the sod of grass with the daisy, that they threw out into the dust
of the highway; no one thought about it, though it had felt more than
any of them for the little bird, and would so gladly have comforted it.