It was the only growing thing in the whole, beautiful garden that was
prickly. It stood beside the sunny path, so low that the white rabbit
could jump over it. It longed to spread its branches across the path
to be touched by the gardener and the children, but no one cared to go
very near the little bush that was so covered with thorns.
The day lily had broad, soft leaves without a single thorn. It spread
them away from the prickly bush. The tulips had tall, smooth leaves.
They held them very high, and away from the bush that was so full of
thorns. The white rabbit that lived in the garden and loved to sun
himself beneath the plants was very careful not to go near the prickly
little bush.
"I must tie this bush so that it cannot hurt any one," the gardener
said one day as he passed it. "The thorns on it are growing larger and
larger every day." So he cut a long, straight stick, and painted it
green, and stuck it in the ground beside the prickly little bush. Then
he tied the bush tightly to the stick, which kept it from leaning over
the path.
"Be very careful not to go near that ugly little bush," said the
children to each other. "It will scratch you even worse than the cat
scratches."
All this was very discouraging, and the prickly little bush drooped
and did not feel like growing.
The days of the summer grew warmer, the sun shone, and soft rains fell
upon the garden. A pleasant breeze came singing down the path, and the
sun, and the rain, and the breeze, each one, spoke to the prickly
little bush.
"Climb up a little higher," the great, yellow sun seemed to say. So
the prickly little bush pulled and stretched its prickly branches up
toward the blue sky, and as it grew higher and higher, its thorns
went, too, out of the way of the rabbit and the children.
"Push harder," the pattering raindrops seemed to say to the roots of
the prickly little bush as they soaked down through the ground. So the
roots of the prickly little bush pushed, and pushed until the branches
seemed bursting, and green leaves and tiny buds came and covered over
the thorns so that they could scarcely be seen at all.
"Open your buds as wide as you can," the warm breezes seemed to sing
as they stopped in the branches of the prickly little bush. So the
little bush unfolded its brown buds as wide and as prettily as it
could.
Then it came to be the most beautiful day of all, the mother's
birthday. The children went out to the garden to try to find the
loveliest thing that grew there to be their mother's birthday gift.
And that was not easy because the garden was so full of lovely things.
"I am sure that she will like this tall white lily," said one of the
children.
"But the lily fades so quickly after it is picked," said another
child. "I think that she would like a red tulip."
"But our mother loves pink better than she loves red," said the
youngest child. "Do let us go on a little farther before we decide
what to take her for her birthday. Oh, how pretty--" The youngest
child stopped in front of the prickly little bush, and the others
crowded close to see, too.
They never would have known that it was the prickly bush, at all. It
stood as proudly and as straight as a little tree, and its green
leaves covered it like a beautiful dress. Peeping out from between the
leaves were the most lovely pink flowers, as soft as velvet and with
so many curling petals that one could not count them. They smelled
more sweetly than any other flower in the garden, and the children
could scarcely speak at first, they were so surprised.
"Roses!" said one child.
"Pink roses!" said another child.
"The prickly little bush has turned into a rose bush for our mother's
birthday," said the youngest child.
So they smelled of the beautiful pink roses, and touched them to feel
how soft and like velvet the petals were. Then they decided that the
pink roses that had bloomed on the prickly little bush were the
loveliest flowers in the whole garden, and they picked the largest
pink rose of all to carry into the house for their mother's birthday
gift.
On the way they met the gardener, and they showed him the beautiful
rose, telling him how it had grown upon the prickly little bush. He
smiled, for he knew a great deal about the strange ways of his plants.
"I thought it would bear roses this year," the gardener said. "It
often happens that the bush with the sharpest thorns to carry, once it
blooms, has the prettiest roses."