The Rose-bush did not know where she was born and where she spent her
early days—it is a well known fact that flowers have a bad memory, but
to make up for that they can see into the future. When she first became
conscious of herself, she stood in the middle of a magnificent green
lawn. To one side of her she saw a great white stone house, that
gleamed through the branches of linden trees, to the other side stood a
high trellised gate through which she could see the street.
A thin tall man carefully tended the Rose-bush; he brought manure,
bound the drooping twigs of the Rose-bush together with bark, brought
water for the thirsty roots of the Rose-bush to drink. The Rose-bush
was grateful to the man, and as the buds she was covered with opened
into dainty red roses, she said to her friend, “You have taken care of
me, it is because of you that I have become so beautiful. Take some of
my loveliest blossoms in return.”
The man shook his head. “You mean well, dear Rose-bush, and I would
gladly take some of your beautiful blossoms for my sick wife. But I
dare not do it. You don’t belong to me.”
“I don’t belong to you!” exclaimed the Rose-bush. “Don’t I belong to
the person who has taken care of me and troubled himself about me? Then
to whom do I belong?”
The man pointed with his hand to the gleaming white house among the
trees and replied, “To the gracious lady who lives there.”
“That can’t be,” replied the Rose-bush. “I have never seen this lady.
It is not she who has sprinkled water on me, loosened the earth at my
roots, bound together my twigs. Then how can I belong to her?”
“She has bought you.”
“That is something different. Then the poor woman must have worked hard
to save so much money. Good! Half of my blossoms shall belong to her.”
The man laughed a little sadly, saying, “Oh, beloved Rose-bush, you
don’t yet know the world, I can see that. The lady did not lift a
finger to earn the money.”
“Then how did she get it?”
“She owns a great factory in which countless workers drudge; from there
comes her wealth.”
The Rose-bush became angry, lifted a bough up high, threatened the man
with her thorn-claws, shouting, “I see you enjoy yourself at my expense
because I am still young and inexperienced, telling me untruths about
the world of men. Still I am not so stupid, I have observed ants and
bees, and know that to each belongs the things for which he has
worked.”
“That may be so among bees and ants,” the man sighed deeply, “yet among
men it is different. There the people receive just enough to keep them
from starving—all else belongs to the master. The master builds
splendid mansions, plants lovely gardens, buys flowers.”
“Is that really true?”
“Yes.”
The man went back to his work and the Rose-bush began to meditate. Yet
the longer she thought, the worse her temper grew. Yes, even though she
usually had very fine manners, she spoke roughly to a bee who wished to
visit her. The bee was still young and timid, and flew off in fright as
fast as his wings could carry him. Then the Rose-bush was sorry for her
rough behavior, because she was naturally friendly, and also because
she might have asked the bee whether the man had spoken the truth.
While she was so engrossed in thought, suddenly some one shook her and
a mischievous voice asked, “Well, my friend, what are you dreaming
about?”
The Rose-bush looked up with her countless eyes and recognized the
Wind, that stood laughing before her shaking his head so that his long
hair flew about.
“Wind, beloved Wind!” joyfully exclaimed the Rose-bush, “You come as
though you had been called. Tell me whether the man has spoken the
truth.” And she reported everything the man had said to her.
The Wind suddenly became serious and whistled through his teeth so
violently that the branches of the Rose-bush began to tremble. “Yes,”
declared he, “all this is true, and even worse. I come here from all
over the whole world and see everything. Often I am so seized with
anger that I begin to rave; then the stupid people say, ‘My! what a
storm!’”
“And the rich people can really buy everything?”
“Yes,” growled the wind. Then suddenly he laughed. “Not me. They can’t
capture and imprison me. I am the friend of the poor. I fly to all
lands. In big cities, I station myself before ill-smelling cellars and
roar into them ‘Freedom! Justice!’ To tired, overworked people I sing a
lullaby, ‘Be courageous, keep together, fight, you will conquer!’ Then
they feel new strength, they know a comrade has spoken to them.” He
tittered, and all the leaves in the garden stirred. “The rich would
like to imprison me, because I carry the message, but I whistle at
them. At night I rattle their windows so that they become frightened in
their soft beds, and then I cry, ‘Ho ho, you idlers, your time is
coming. Make room for the workers of the world!’ At that they are very
frightened, draw the silken covers over their ears, try to comfort
themselves: ‘It was only the wind!’”
The Wind lifted one of his legs high and pushed it with all his weight
against the magnificent white house. The windows clattered, many things
in the house were broken, a woman’s voice shrieked. The Wind laughed,
then drew his leg back and said to the Rose-bush: “You also can do
something, you flowers. Do not bloom for the rich idlers, and the fruit
trees should not bear fruit. But you are pleasure-loving and lazy
creatures. Look at the Tulips that stand up so sturdily all day, always
saying nothing but ‘How lovely we are!’ They have no other interests.”
The petals of the Rose-bush became a deeper red, so ashamed was she of
her sister-flower.
The Wind noticed this and tried to comfort her. “You appear to be a
sensible, kind-hearted bush. I shall visit you more often. Give me one
of your petals as a parting gift.” He took a deep red petal from a full
blown rose. “Be happy—now I must leave.”
At that moment two poorly-dressed pale children came along the street.
They stopped before the gate and cried as though with one voice, “Oh,
the beautiful roses!” The little girl stretched her hands longingly
toward the blossoms.
“Wind, beloved Wind,” called the Rose-bush, as loud as she could.
“Before you fly away, break off two of my loveliest roses and throw
them to the children. But be careful that the petals do not drop off.”
“Do you think I am so clumsy?” grumbled the insulted Wind, breaking off
two handsome roses, and blew them lightly, gently to the children.
The children shouted joyfully, the Wind flew away, and the Rose-bush
enjoyed the happiness of the children. Her enjoyment did not last long.
An angry voice scolded the children. “What impudence is this, to steal
the flowers out of my garden!”
The Rose-bush saw a silk-clad lady with fingers that were covered with
rings threatening the children. Her smooth face was red with anger. The
children were frightened and ran off crying.
The Rose-bush breathed deep with indignation and her breath blew
sweeter perfume towards the lady’s face. She stepped closer. “Ah, the
beautiful roses. I had better pick them, otherwise the rabble from the
streets will steal them. And they are such an expensive kind.”
At this the Rose-bush became enraged, so that her blossoms blazed a
fiery red. “If I were only strong as the wind,” thought she, “I would
get hold of this evil woman and shake her so that she would become deaf
and blind. Such a common creature has a whole garden full of the most
gorgeous flowers and begrudges the children for two paltry roses. But
you shall not have even one of my blossoms, you bad woman, just wait.”
And as the woman bent down to pick the flowers, the Rose-bush hit her
in the face with a twig, stretching out all her thorns like a cat
stretches out its claws, and scratched up the woman’s face.
She screamed aloud. The woman did not want to cease from her task, but
the Rose-bush was as willful as she; wherever the hand of the woman
reached, a large thorn sprang out and scratched her till she bled.
At last the woman, with torn clothes, with scratched, dirty hands, had
to turn back home.
The Rose-bush was completely tired from the heated struggle. Her many
green arms hung limply, her flowers were paler, she sighed softly. Yet
she thought more deeply and arrived at a mighty resolution.
Late in the evening the Wind came flying to bid the Rose-bush
good-night, and the Rose-bush said to him solemnly, “Listen to me,
Brother Wind, I will follow your advice, I will no longer bloom for the
idlers.”
The Wind caressed the leaves and flowers of the Rose-bush with gentle
hands, saying earnestly, “Poor little Rose-bush, will you have the
strength for that? You will have to suffer a great deal.”
“Yes,” replied the Rose-bush, “I know it. But I will have the strength.
Only you must come every day and sing your song of freedom, so as
always to renew my courage.”
The Wind promised to do this.
Then followed bad days for the Rose-bush, for she had decided not to
drink any water, that she might cease blooming. When her friend came
with the water pot she drew her little roots close to herself, that no
drops might touch them. Ah, how she suffered! she thought she would
faint. In the day-time the sun shone, and she became more thirsty every
hour, always longing more for water. And at last, at evening came the
longed for drink, but she dared not sip the full draught, she had to
turn away from the cool precious liquid, to thirst again. After a while
she thought she could not endure it. But the wind came flying, fanning
her, singing softly and gently, “Be brave, be brave! You will conquer!”
Day after day the Rose-bush gazed at the gleaming white house in which
lived people who had everything they wanted and then looked at the
street where others passed by with thin, pale faces that were tired and
sad, and this brought new strength to her heart.
She became constantly more sick and more weak; her arms hung down
feebly, her blossoms dropped their petals, her leaves became wrinkled
and yellow. The man who tended her watched her sadly and asked. “What
is wrong, my poor Rose-bush?” and he tried every remedy he knew of to
help her. But all in vain. One morning, instead of a handsome, blooming
Rose-bush, he found a miserable, withered, dead bush.
That could not remain there, the withered branches and flowers spoiled
the handsome garden. The gracious lady commanded that the Rose-bush be
thrown out. As the man dug her up, the Rose-bush gathered her remaining
strength and whispered beseechingly, “Take me home! Please, please take
me home!”
The man fulfilled her wish. He planted the Rose-bush in a flower pot
and took her to the poor, small room where he lived. His sick wife sat
up in bed and said, “Ah, the poor Rose-bush, she is as sick as I am,
but you will nurse us both back to health.”
The withered leaves and twigs moaned, “Water! Water!” And the man
understood them and brought in a jar of water. The Rose-bush drank. Oh!
what delight this was! Eagerly her roots sucked up the water, the
delicious moisture passing through all her branches gave her new life.
The next morning she could lift up her branches; the sick woman was as
happy as a child and cried, “She will get well!”
And the Rose-bush really got well. In a short while she again became so
beautiful that the poor little room was as fragrant as a garden. The
pale cheeks of the woman became rosier every day, her strength was
returning. “The Rose-bush has made me well,” said she, and all the
flowers on the Rose-bush glowed deep red with joy when she heard these
words.
The man and his wife were kind people, they gladly shared the little
they had, and carefully broke off some roses to bring joy to tired
people in other lonely rooms.
The roses had other magic powers; the Rose-bush, in her days of
struggle and suffering, had learned the songs of the Wind. Now her
flowers sang them very softly for their friends, “Keep together! Fight!
You will conquer!” Then the people said, “How strange! The perfume of
the flowers brings us new strength. We will fight together for a better
world.”
But to the little children the roses sang in a tender, loving voice:
“Little children, when you are grown up, you will no longer stand sadly
before the gate. The whole world will belong to those who work, the
whole world!”