"Fie for shame!" they cried to the beech leaves. "It is you who are killing us."But the beech shook his long boughs and let his brown husks drop down to the ground."Wait till the autumn, you little simpletons," he said, laughing. "Then you shall see."The anemones could not understand what he meant. But when they had stretched themselves till they were as tall as they could be, they broke off and withered.The summer was over, and the farmer had carried his corn home from the field.The wood was still green, but it was a darker green than before; and in manyplaces red and yellow leaves glowed among the green ones. The sun was tired after his hot work in the summer, and went early to bed.At night Winter was stealing about among the trees to see if his time was not soon coming. When he found a flower, he gallantly kissed it, saying,—"What! are you here still? I am charmed to meet you. Please stay where you are. I am a good old man, and would not harm a cat."But the flower shuddered at his kiss, and the transparent dewdrop that hung from its petal froze to ice at the instant.Again and again Winter ran through the wood. When he breathed on them, the leaves turned yellow and the earth grew hard.
"Fie for shame!" they cried to the beech leaves. "It is you who are killing us."
But the beech shook his long boughs and let his brown husks drop down to the ground.
"Wait till the autumn, you little simpletons," he said, laughing. "Then you shall see."
The anemones could not understand what he meant. But when they had stretched themselves till they were as tall as they could be, they broke off and withered.
The summer was over, and the farmer had carried his corn home from the field.
The wood was still green, but it was a darker green than before; and in manyplaces red and yellow leaves glowed among the green ones. The sun was tired after his hot work in the summer, and went early to bed.
At night Winter was stealing about among the trees to see if his time was not soon coming. When he found a flower, he gallantly kissed it, saying,—
"What! are you here still? I am charmed to meet you. Please stay where you are. I am a good old man, and would not harm a cat."
But the flower shuddered at his kiss, and the transparent dewdrop that hung from its petal froze to ice at the instant.
Again and again Winter ran through the wood. When he breathed on them, the leaves turned yellow and the earth grew hard.
Even the anemones, who lay below in the earth waiting till my Lady Spring should come back as she had promised, they too felt his breath and shuddered down in their roots.
"Ugh! how cold it is!" they said to one another. "How shall we stand the winter?We shall die for a certainty before it is over."
"Now it'smytime," said Winter. "Now I need no longer steal about like a thief in the night. After to-day I shall look everybody in the face, and bite their noses, and make their eyes run with water."
At night he let loose the storm. "Let me see you make a clean sweep," he said. And the storm obeyed his command. He went howling through the wood, and shook the branches till they creaked and cracked. Any that were rotten broke off, and those that held on had to turn and bow this way and that.
"Away with that finery!" howled the storm as he tore off the leaves. "This is not the time to dress yourself up. The snow will soon be coming on to your branches; that will be quite another story."
All the leaves fell in terror to the earth, but the storm would not let them rest. He seized them round the waist and waltzed with them out over the field, high up into the air, and into the wood again, swept them intogreat heaps, and then scattered them in all directions—just as it pleased him.
Not till morning came did the storm grow weary and lie down to rest.
"Now you shall have peace for a time," he said. "I will take a rest till we have the spring cleaning. Then we can have another turn together—that is, if there are any of you left by then."And the leaves lay down to rest, and spread themselves like a thick carpet over the whole land.The anemones felt that it had become pleasantly warm."Can it be my Lady Spring already?" they asked each other."I haven't got my buds ready," shouted one of them."Nor I! Nor I!" cried the others in one voice.But one of them took courage and peeped out over the earth."Good-morning!" cried the withered beech leaves. "It is a little too early, little lady. I hope you will be none the worse for it.""Isn't it my Lady Spring?" inquired the anemone."Not yet," answered the beech leaves. "It is only the green beech leaves that you were so angry with last summer. The green has gone from us, so we have no great finery to boast of now. We have enjoyed our youth and had our fling, I can tell you. And now we lie here and protect all the little flowers in the earth against the winter.""And meanwhileIstand shivering in all my bare boughs," said the beech peevishly.The anemones talked it over one to another down below in the earth, and thought it was grand."Those grand beech leaves!" they said."Mind you remember this next summer when I burst into leaf," said the beech."We will! we will!" whispered the anemones.But that sort of promise is easily made—and easily broken.
"Now you shall have peace for a time," he said. "I will take a rest till we have the spring cleaning. Then we can have another turn together—that is, if there are any of you left by then."
And the leaves lay down to rest, and spread themselves like a thick carpet over the whole land.
The anemones felt that it had become pleasantly warm.
"Can it be my Lady Spring already?" they asked each other.
"I haven't got my buds ready," shouted one of them.
"Nor I! Nor I!" cried the others in one voice.
But one of them took courage and peeped out over the earth.
"Good-morning!" cried the withered beech leaves. "It is a little too early, little lady. I hope you will be none the worse for it."
"Isn't it my Lady Spring?" inquired the anemone.
"Not yet," answered the beech leaves. "It is only the green beech leaves that you were so angry with last summer. The green has gone from us, so we have no great finery to boast of now. We have enjoyed our youth and had our fling, I can tell you. And now we lie here and protect all the little flowers in the earth against the winter."
"And meanwhileIstand shivering in all my bare boughs," said the beech peevishly.
The anemones talked it over one to another down below in the earth, and thought it was grand.
"Those grand beech leaves!" they said.
"Mind you remember this next summer when I burst into leaf," said the beech.
"We will! we will!" whispered the anemones.
But that sort of promise is easily made—and easily broken.
The sun had just gone down.
The frog was croaking his "good-night," which lasted so long that there seemed no end to it. The bee was creeping into its hive, and little children were crying because they had to go to bed. The flower was closing up its petals and bowing its head; the bird was tucking its bill under its wing; and the stag was laying himself down to rest in the tall, soft grass in the glade of the wood.
From the village church the bells were ringing for sunset, and when that was over the old clerk went home. On his way he had a little chat or two with the people whowere out for an evening stroll, or were standing before their gate and smoking a pipe till they bade him good-night and shut the door.
Then it grew quite quiet, and the darkness fell. There was a light in the parson's house, and there was one also in the doctor's. But the farmers' houses were dark, because in summer-time the farmers get up so early that they must go early to bed.
And then the stars began to twinkle, and the moon crept higher and higher up the sky. Down in the village a dog was barking. But it must have been barking in a dream, for there was nothing to bark at.
"Is there anybody there?" asked the mist.But nobody answered, for nobody was there. So the mist issued forth in her bright, airy robes. She went dancing over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Then she lay quite still for a moment, and then she took to dancing again. Out over the lake she skipped and deep into the wood, where she threw her long, damp arms round the trunks of the trees."Who are you, my friend?" asked thenight-violet,[A]who stood there giving forth fragrance just to please herself.[A]An inconspicuous flower which in Denmark is very fragrant in the evening, the "night-smelling rocket" (Hesperis tristis).The mist did not answer, but went on dancing."I asked you who you were," said the night-violet. "And as you don't answer me, I conclude that you are a rude person.""I will now concludeyou," said the mist. And then she spread herself round the night-violet, so that her petals were dashed with wet.
"Is there anybody there?" asked the mist.
But nobody answered, for nobody was there. So the mist issued forth in her bright, airy robes. She went dancing over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Then she lay quite still for a moment, and then she took to dancing again. Out over the lake she skipped and deep into the wood, where she threw her long, damp arms round the trunks of the trees.
"Who are you, my friend?" asked thenight-violet,[A]who stood there giving forth fragrance just to please herself.
[A]An inconspicuous flower which in Denmark is very fragrant in the evening, the "night-smelling rocket" (Hesperis tristis).
[A]An inconspicuous flower which in Denmark is very fragrant in the evening, the "night-smelling rocket" (Hesperis tristis).
The mist did not answer, but went on dancing.
"I asked you who you were," said the night-violet. "And as you don't answer me, I conclude that you are a rude person."
"I will now concludeyou," said the mist. And then she spread herself round the night-violet, so that her petals were dashed with wet.
"Oh, oh!" cried the night-violet. "Keep your fingers to yourself, my friend. I have a feeling as if I had been dipped in the pond. You have no reason for getting so angry just because I asked you who you are."
The mist let go of her again.
"Who am I?" she said. "You could not understand even if I told you."
"Try," said the night-violet.
"I am the dewdrop on the flower, the cloud in the sky, and the mist on the meadow," said the mist.
"I beg your pardon," said the night-violet."Would you mind saying that again? The dewdrop I know. It settles every morning on my leaves, and I don't think it is at all like you."
"No; but it is I all the same," said the mist mournfully. "But no one knows me. I must live my life under many shapes. One time I am dew, and another time I am rain; and yet another time I babble as a clear, cool streamlet through the wood. But when I dance on the meadows in the evening, men say that it is the marsh-lady brewing."
"It is a strange story," said the night-violet. "Do you mind telling it to me? The night is long, and I sometimes get a little bored by it."
"It is a sad story," answered the mist. "But you may have it and welcome."
But when she was about to lie down the night-violet shook with terror in all her petals.
"Be so kind as to keep at a little distance," she said, "at least till you have properly introduced yourself. I have never cared to be on familiar terms with people I don't know."
So the mist lay down a little way off and began her story:—
"I was born deep down in the earth—far deeper than your roots go. There I and my sisters—for we are a large family, you must understand—came into the world as waves of a hidden spring, pure and clear as crystal; and for a long time we had to stay in our hiding-place. But one day we suddenly leapt from a hillside into the full light of the sun. You can well imagine how delightful it was to come tumbling down through the wood. We hopped over stones and rippled against the bank. Pretty little fishes gambolled amongst us, and the trees bent over so that their beautiful green was reflected in our waters. If a leaf fell, we cradled it and fondled it and carried it out with us into the wide world. Ah, that was delightful! It was indeed the happiest time of my life."
"But when are you going to tell me how you came to turn into mist?" asked the night-violet impatiently. "I know all about the underground spring. When the air isquite still, I can hear it murmur from where I stand."
The mist lifted herself a little and took a turn round the meadow. Then she came back, and went on with her story:—
"It is the worst of this world that one is never contented with what one has. So it was with us. We kept running on and on, till at last we ran into a great lake, where water-lilies rocked on the water and dragon-flies hummed on their great stiff wings. Up on the surface the lake was clear as a mirror. But whether we wished it or not, we had to run right down by the bottom, where it was dark and gruesome. And this I could not endure. I longed for the sunbeams. I knew them so well from the time I used to run in the brook. There they used to peep down through the leaves and pass over me in fleeting gleams. I longed so much to see them again that I stole up to the surface, and lay down in the sunshine all amongst the white water-lilies and their great green leaves. But, ugh! how the sun burnt me there on the lake! It was scarcely bearable. Bitterly did I regret that I had not stopped down below."
THE EVENING HOUR
"I can't say this part of your story is very amusing," said the night-violet. "Isn't the mist soon coming?"
"Here it is!" said the mist, and dropped down once more on the flower, so that it nearly had the breath squeezed out of it.
"Ough! ough!" shrieked the night-violet. "Upon my word, you are the most ill-natured person I have ever known. Move off, and go on with your story, since it must be so."
"In the evening, when the sun had set, I suddenly became wonderfully light," said the mist. "I don't know how it came about, but I thought I could rise up from the lake and fly; and before I knew anything about it, I was drifting over the water, far away from the dragon-flies and the water-lilies. The evening breeze bore me away. I flew high up into the air, and there I met many of my sisters, who had been just as eager for novelty as myself, and had had the same fate. We drifted across the sky, for, you see, we had become clouds."
"I am not sure I do see," said the night-violet. "The thing sounds incredible."
"But it is true all the same," answered the mist. "And let me tell you what happened then. The wind carried us for a long way through the air. But all at once it would not do so any more, and let us drop. Down we fell on to the earth as a splashing shower of rain. The flowers all shut up in a hurry, and the birds crept under cover—except, of course, the ducks and the geese, for, you know, the wetter it is the more they like it. Yes—and the farmer too! He wanted rain so much for his crops, he stood there hugely delighted, and did not in the least mind getting wet. But otherwise we really did make quite a sensation."
"Oh! so you are the rain as well?" said the night-violet. "I must say you have plenty to do."
"Yes, I'm never idle," said the mist.
"All the same, I have not yet heard how you became mist," said the night-violet. "Only,pleasedon't get into a passion again. You know you promised to tell me withoutmy asking you, and I would sooner hear the whole story over again than shiver once more in your horrid, clammy arms."
The mist lay silent and sobbed for a few moments. Then she went on with her story:—
"After I had fallen on the earth as rain, I sank down into the black soil, and was already congratulating myself on soon getting back to my birthplace, the deep underground spring. There, at any rate, one enjoyed peace and had no cares. But, as I was sinking into the ground, the tree roots sucked me up, and I had to wander about for a whole day in the boughs and leaves. They treated me as a beast of burden, I assure you. All the food that the leaves and flowers needed I had to carry up to them from the roots. It was not till the evening that I managed to get away. When the sun had gone down the flowers and trees all heaved a deep sigh, and I and my sisters flew off in that sigh in the form of bright airy mists. To-night we dance on the meadow. But when the sun rises in the morning we shall turninto those pretty transparent dewdrops which hang from your petals. When you shake us off we shall sink deeper and deeper till we reach the spring we came from—that is, if some root or other does not snap us up on the way. And so the journey goes on. Down the brook, out into the lake, up into the air, down again to the earth—"
"Stop!" said the night-violet. "If I listen to you any more, I shall become quite sea-sick."
Now the frog began to stir. He stretched his legs, and went down to the ditch to take his morning bath. The birds began to twitter in the wood, and the bellow of the stag echoed amongst the trees. It was on the point of dawn, and here came the sun peeping up over the hill.
"Hullo, what is that?" he said. "What a strange sight! One can't see one's hand before one's face. Wind of the morning! up with you, you sluggard, and drive the foul mists away."
The morning wind came over the meadow, and away went the mists. And at the verysame moment the first rays of the sun fell right on the night-violet.
"Heyday!" said the flower. "We have got the sun already, so I had better make haste and shut up. Where in the world has the mist gone to?"
"I am still here," said the dewdrop that hung on its stalk.
But the night-violet shook herself peevishly. "You may stuff up children with that nonsense," she said. "As for me, I don't believe a word of your whole story. It is as weak as water."
Then the sun laughed and said, "You are quite rightthere!"
It all happened long, long ago. There were no towns then with houses and streets, and church steeples domineering over everything. There were no schools, for there were not many boys, and those that there were learnt from their father to shoot with the bow and arrow, to hunt the stag in his covert, to kill the bear in order to make clothes out of his skin, and to rub two pieces of wood together till they caught fire. When they knew this perfectly, they had finished their education. There were no railways either, and no cultivated fields, no ships on the sea, no books, for there was nobody who could read them.
There was scarcely anything except trees. But trees there were in plenty. They stood everywhere from coast to coast; they saw themselves reflected in all the rivers and lakes, and stretched their mighty boughs up towards heaven. They leaned out over the shore, dipped their boughs in the black fen water, and from the high hills looked out proudly over the land.
They all knew each other, for they belonged to a great family, and were proud of it.
"We are alloaktrees," they said. "We own the land, and rule over it."
And they were right. There were only a few human beings there in those days, and those that there were were nothing better than wild animals. The bear, the wolf, and the fox went out hunting, while the stag grazed by the edge of the fen. The field-mouse sat outside his hole and ate acorns, and the beaver built his artistic houses by the river banks.
One day the bear came trudging along and lay down at full breadth under a great oak tree.
"Are you there again, you robber?" said the oak, and shook a lot of withered leaves down over him.
"You should not squander your leaves, my old friend," said the bear, licking his paws. "That is all the shade you can give against the sun."
"If you are not pleased with me, you can go," answered the oak proudly. "I am lord in the land, and whatever way you look you find my brothers and nothing else."
"True," muttered the bear. "That is just what is so sickening. I have been for a little tour abroad, I may tell you, and am just a little bit spoilt. It was in a land down towards the south—there I took a nap under the beech trees. They are tall, slim trees, not crooked old things like you. And their tops are so dense that the sunbeams cannot creep through them. It was a real pleasure there to take a midday nap, I assure you."
"Beech trees?" said the oak inquisitively. "What are they?"
"You might well wish you were half as pretty as a beech tree," said the bear. "ButI don't want to chatter any more with you just now. I have had to trot a mile on account of a confounded hunter who struck me on one of my hind legs with an arrow. Now I should like to have a sleep, and perhaps you will be kind enough to leave me at peace, since you cannot give me shade."
The bear stretched himself out and closed his eyes; but he got no sleepthattime, for the other trees had heard his story, and they began chattering and talking and rustling their leaves in a way never known in the wood before.
"What on earth can those trees be?" said one of them.
"It is, of course, a mere story; the bear wishes to impose upon us," said the other.
"What kind of trees can they be whose leaves sit so close together that the sunbeams cannot creep between them?" asked a little oak, who was listening to what the big ones were talking about.
But by his side stood an old gnarled tree, who gave the little oak a clout on the head with one of his lowest boughs.
"Hold your tongue," he said, "and don't talk till you have something to talk about. You need none of you believe a word of the bear's nonsense. I am much taller than you, and I can see far out over the wood. But so far as ever I can see, there is nothing but oak trees."
The little oak was shamefaced, and held his tongue; and the other big trees spoke to one another in low whispers, for they had great respect for the old one.
But the bear got up and rubbed his eyes. "Now you have disturbed my midday nap," he growled angrily, "and I declare that I will have my revenge. When I come back I will bring some beech nuts with me, and I vow you will all turn yellow with jealousy when you see how pretty the new trees are."
Then he made off. But the oaks talked the whole day long one to another about the funny trees he had told them about.
"If they come, I will kill them," said the little oak tree, but directly afterwards he got one on the head from the old oak.
"If they come, you shall treat them politely, you young dog," said he. "But they will not come."
But in this the old oak was wrong, for they did come.
Towards autumn the bear came back and lay down under the old oak.
"My friends down there wish me to present their compliments," he said, and he picked some funny things out of his shaggy coat. "Here you may see what I have for you."
"What is it?" asked the oak.
"That isbeech," answered the bear—"the beech nuts which I promised you."
Then he trampled them into the ground and prepared to go back.
"It is a pity I cannot stay and see how angry you will be," he growled, "but those confounded human beings have begun to press one so hard. The day before yesterday they killed my wife and one of my brothers, and I must see about finding a place where I can live in peace. There is scarcely a spotleft where a self-respecting bear can stay. Good-bye, you old, gnarled oak trees!"
When the bear had shambled off, the trees looked at one another anxiously.
"Let us see what comes of it," said the old oak.
And after this they composed themselves to rest. The winter came and tore all their leaves off them, the snow lay high over the whole land, and every tree stood deep in his own thoughts and dreamt of the spring.
And when the spring came the grass stood green, and the birds began singing where they left off last. The flowers came up in multitudes from the earth, and everything looked fresh and gay.
The oak trees alone stood with leafless boughs.
"It is the most dignified thing to come last!" they said one to another. "The kings of the wood do not come till the whole company is assembled."
But at last they came. All the leaves burst forth from the swollen buds, and the trees looked at one another and complimentedone another on their beauty. The little oak had grown ever so much. He was very proud of it, and he thought that he had now the right to join in the conversation.
"Nothing has come yet of the bear's beech trees," he said jeeringly, at the same time glancing anxiously up at the old oak, who used to give him one on the head.
The old oak heard what he said very plainly, and the other trees also; but they said nothing. Not one of them had forgotten what the bear had told them, and every morning when the sun came out they peeped down to look for the beeches. They were really a little uneasy, but they were too proud to talk about it.
And one day the little shoots did at last burst forth from the earth. The sun shone on them, and the rain fell on them, so it was not long before they grew tall.
"Oh, how pretty they are!" said the great oak, and stooped his crooked boughs still more, so that they could get a good view of them.
"You are welcome among us," said the old oak, and graciously inclined his head to them. "You shall be my foster-children, and be treated just as well as my own."
"Thanks," said the little beeches, and they said no more.
But the little oak could not bear the strange trees. "It is dreadful the way you shoot up into the air," he said in vexation. "You are already half as tall as I am. But I beg you to take notice that I am much older, and of good family besides."
The beeches laughed with their little, tiny green leaves, but said nothing.
"Shall I bend my branches a little aside so that the sun can shine better on you?" the old tree asked politely.
"Many thanks," answered the beeches. "We can grow very nicely in the shade."
And the whole summer passed by, and another summer after that, and still more summers. The beeches went on growing, and at last quite overtopped the little oak.
"Keep your leaves to yourself," cried the oak; "you overshadow me, and that is whatI can't endure. I must have plenty of sunshine. Take your leaves away or I perish."
The beeches only laughed and went on growing. At last they closed together over the little oak's head, and then he died.
"That was a horrid thing to do," a great oak called out, and shook his boughs in terror.
But the old oak took his foster-children under his protection.
"It serves him right," he said. "He is paid out for his boasting. I say it, though he is my own flesh and blood. But now you must behave yourselves, little beeches, or I will give you a clout on the head."
Years went by, and the beeches went on growing, and they grew till they were tall young trees, which reached up among the branches of the old oak.
"You begin to be rather pushing," the old tree said. "You should try to grow a little broader, and stop this shooting up into the air. Just see where your branches are soaring. Bend them properly, as you see us do. How will you be able to hold outwhen a regular storm comes? I assure you the wind gives one's head a good shaking. My old boughs have creaked many a time; and what do you think will become of the flimsy finery that you stick up in the air?"
IN THE EARLY DAYS
"Every one has his own manner of growth, and we have ours," answered the young beeches. "This is the way it's done where we come from, and we are perhaps as good as you are."
"That is not a polite way of speaking to an old tree with moss on his boughs," said the oak. "I begin to repent that I was so kind to you. If you have a spark of honourable feeling alive in you, be good enough to move your leaves a little to one side. There have been scarcely any buds on my lowest branches this year, you overshadow me so."
"I don't quite understand how that concerns us," answered the beeches. "Every one has quite enough to do to look after himself. If he is equal to his work, and has luck, it turns out well for him; if not, hemust be prepared to go to the wall. That is the way of the world."
Then the oak's lowest branch died, and he began to be seriously alarmed.
"You are pretty things," he said, "if this is the way you reward me for my hospitality. When you were little I let you grow at my feet, and sheltered you against the storm. I let the sun shine on you as much as ever he would, and I treated you as if you were my own children. And in return for all this you stifle me."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said the beeches. So they put forth flowers and fruit, and when the fruit was ripe the wind shook the boughs and scattered it round far and wide.
"You are quick people like me," said the wind. "I like you for it, and am glad to do you a good turn."
And the fox rolled on the ground at the foot of the beech trees and got his fur full of the prickly fruits, and ran with them far out into the country. The bear did the same, and grinned into the bargain at the old oak while he lay and rested in the shadow of thebeeches. The field-mouse was beside himself with joy over his new food, and thought that beech nuts tasted much nicer than acorns. All around new little beech trees shot up, which grew just as fast as their parents, and looked as green and as happy as if they did not know what an uneasy conscience was.
But the old oak gazed sadly out over the wood. The light-green beech leaves were peeping out everywhere, and the oaks were sighing and bewailing their distress to one another.
"They are taking our strength out of us," they said, and shook as much as the beeches around would let them. "The land is ours no longer."
One bough died after another, and the storm broke them off and cast them on the ground. The old oak had now only a few leaves left at the very top.
"The end is near," he said gravely.
By this time there were many more human beings in the land than there were before, and they made haste to hew down the oaks while there were still some remaining.
"Oak timber is better than beech timber," they said.
"At last we get a little appreciation," said the old oak, "but we have to pay for it with our lives."
Then he said to the beech trees,—
"What was I thinking of when I helped you on in your young days? What an old stupid I was! Before that, we oak trees were lords in the land; and now every year I see my brothers around me perishing in the fight against you. It will soon be all over with me, and not one of my acorns has sprouted under your shade. But before I die I should like to know the name you give to such conduct."
"That will not take long to say, old friend," answered the beeches. "We call itcompetition, and that is not any discovery of our own. It is competition which rules the world."
"I do not know these foreign words of yours," said the oak. "I call it mean ingratitude." And then he died.
In among the green bushes and trees ran the brook. Tall, straight-growing rushes stood along its banks, and whispered to the wind. Out in the middle of the water floated the water-lily, with its white flower and its broad green leaves.
Generally it was quite calm on the brook. But when, now and again, it chanced that the wind took a little turn over it, there was a rustle in the rushes, and the water-lily sometimes ducked completely under the waves. Then its leaves were lifted up in the air and stood on their edges, so that the thick green stalks that came up from the very bottom ofthe stream found that it was all they could do to hold fast.
All day long the larva of the dragon-fly was crawling up and down the water-lily's stalk.
"Dear me, how stupid it must be to be a water-lily!" it said, and peeped up at the flower.
"You chatter as a person of your small mind might be expected to do," answered the water-lily. "It is just the very nicest thing there is."
"I don't understand that," said the larva. "I should like at this moment to tear myself away, and fly about in the air like the big, beautiful dragon-flies."
"Pooh!" said the water-lily. "That would be a funny kind of pleasure. No; to lie still on the water and dream, to bask in the sun, and now and then to be rocked up and down by the waves—there's some sense inthat!"The larva sat thinking for a minute or two."I have a longing for something greater," it said at last. "If I had my will, I wouldbe a dragon-fly. I would fly on strong, stiff wings along the stream, kiss your white flower, rest a moment on your leaves, and then fly on.""You are ambitious," answered the water-lily, "and that is stupid of you. One knows what one has, but one does not know what one may get. May I, by the way, make so bold as to ask you how you would set about becoming a dragon-fly? You don't look as if that was what you were born for. In any case you will have to grow a little prettier, you gray, ugly thing.""Yes, that is the worst part of it," the larva answered sadly. "I don't know myself how it will come about, but I hope itwillcome about some time or other. That is why I crawl about down here and eat all the little creatures I can get hold of.""Then you think you can attain to something greatby feeding!" the water-lily said, with a laugh. "That would be a funny way of getting up in the world.""Yes; but I believe it is the right way for me!" cried the dragon-fly grub earnestly."All day long I go on eating till I get fat and big; and one fine day, as I think, all my fat will turn into wings with gold on them, and everything else that belongs to a proper dragon-fly!"
"Pooh!" said the water-lily. "That would be a funny kind of pleasure. No; to lie still on the water and dream, to bask in the sun, and now and then to be rocked up and down by the waves—there's some sense inthat!"
The larva sat thinking for a minute or two.
"I have a longing for something greater," it said at last. "If I had my will, I wouldbe a dragon-fly. I would fly on strong, stiff wings along the stream, kiss your white flower, rest a moment on your leaves, and then fly on."
"You are ambitious," answered the water-lily, "and that is stupid of you. One knows what one has, but one does not know what one may get. May I, by the way, make so bold as to ask you how you would set about becoming a dragon-fly? You don't look as if that was what you were born for. In any case you will have to grow a little prettier, you gray, ugly thing."
"Yes, that is the worst part of it," the larva answered sadly. "I don't know myself how it will come about, but I hope itwillcome about some time or other. That is why I crawl about down here and eat all the little creatures I can get hold of."
"Then you think you can attain to something greatby feeding!" the water-lily said, with a laugh. "That would be a funny way of getting up in the world."
"Yes; but I believe it is the right way for me!" cried the dragon-fly grub earnestly.
"All day long I go on eating till I get fat and big; and one fine day, as I think, all my fat will turn into wings with gold on them, and everything else that belongs to a proper dragon-fly!"
The water-lily shook its clever white head.
"Put away your silly thoughts," it said, "and be content with your lot. You can knock about undisturbed down here among my leaves, and crawl up and down the stalk to your heart's desire. You have everything that you need, and no cares or worries—what more do you want?"
"You are of a low nature," answered the larva, "and therefore you have no sense of higher things. In spite of what you say, I wish to become a dragon-fly." And then it crawled right down to the bottom of the water to catch more creatures and stuff itself still bigger.
"I can't understand these animals," it said to itself. "They knock about from morning till night, chase one another and eat oneanother, and are never at peace. We flowers have more sense. Peacefully and quietly we grow up side by side, bask in the sunshine, and drink the rain, and take everything as it comes. And I am the luckiest of them all. Many a time have I been floating happily out here on the water, while the other flowers there on dry land were tormented with drought. The flowers' lot is the best; but naturally the stupid animals can't see it."
When the sun went down the dragon-fly larva was sitting on the stalk, saying nothing, with its legs drawn up under it. It had eaten ever so many little creatures, and was so big that it had a feeling as if it would burst. But all the same it was not altogether happy. It was speculating on what the water-lily had said, and it could hardly get to sleep the whole night long on account of its unquiet thoughts. All this speculating gave it a headache, for it was work which it was not used to. It had a back-ache too, and a stomach-ache. It felt just as though it was going to break in pieces, and die on the spot.
When the sky began to grow gray in the early morning it could hold out no longer.
"I can't make it out," it said in despair. "I am tormented and worried, and I don't know what will be the end of it. Perhaps the water-lily is right, and I shall never be anything else but a poor, miserable larva. But that is a fearful thing to think of. I did so long to become a dragon-fly and fly about in the sun. Oh, my back! my back! I do believe I am dying!"
It had a feeling as if its back was splitting, and it shrieked with pain. At that moment there was a rustle among the rushes on the bank of the stream.
"That's the morning breeze," thought the larva; "I shall at least see the sun when I die." And with great trouble it crawled up one of the leaves of the water-lily, stretched out its legs, and made ready to die.