When People told themselves their past with stories,
explained their present with stories,
foretold the future with stories,
the best place by the fire was kept for ...
THE STORYTELLER!!!

~The Daisy~

Now listen! In the country, close by the high road,
stood a farmhouse; perhaps you have passed by and
seen it yourself. There was a little flower garden with
painted wooden palings in front of it; close by was a ditch,
on its fresh green bank grew a little daisy;
the sun shone as warmly and brightly upon it as on
the magnificent garden flowers, and therefore it thrived well.
One morning it had quite opened, and its little snow-white
petals stood round the yellow centre, like the rays of the sun.
It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass, and that
it was a poor despised flower; on the contrary,
it was quite happy, and turned towards the sun, looking upward and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air.

Stephie Butler 
The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great holiday, but it was only Monday. All the children were
at school, and while they were sitting on the forms
and learning their lessons, it sat on its thin green stalk and
learnt from the sun and from its surroundings how kind
God is, and it rejoiced that the song of the little lark
expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own feelings.
With a sort of reverence the daisy looked up to the bird
that could fly and sing, but it did not feel envious.
“I can see and hear,” it thought; “the sun shines upon me,
and the forest kisses me. How rich I am!”

In the garden close by grew many large and magnificent
flowers, and, strange to say, the less fragrance they
had the haughtier and prouder they were.
The peonies puffed themselves up in order to be larger
than the roses, but size is not everything!
The tulips had the finest colours, and they knew it
well, too, for they were standing bolt upright like candles,
that one might see them the better. In their pride they did
not see the little daisy, which looked over to them and thought, “How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the
pretty bird will fly down and call upon them.
Thank God, that I stand so near and can at least see
all the splendour.” And while the daisy was still thinking,
the lark came flying down, crying “Tweet,” but not to
the peonies and tulips– no, into the grass to the poor
daisy. Its joy was so great that it did not know what to think.
The little bird hopped round it and sang,
“How beautifully soft the grass is, and what a lovely
little flower with its golden heart and silver dress is
growing here.” The yellow centre in the daisy did indeed
look like gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as silver.

How happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea.
The bird kissed it with its beak, sang to it, and then rose
again up to the blue sky. It was certainly more than a
quarter of an hour before the daisy recovered its senses.
Half ashamed, yet glad at heart, it looked over to the
other flowers in the garden; surely they had witnessed its pleasure and the honour that had been done to it; they understood its joy. But the tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces were pointed and red, because they were vexed.

The peonies were sulky; it was well that they could not
speak, otherwise they would have given the daisy a
good lecture. The little flower could very well see that
they were ill at ease, and pitied them sincerely.
Shortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a
large sharp knife. She went to the tulips and began cutting
them off, one after another. “Ugh!” sighed the daisy,
“that is terrible; now they are done for.”
The girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad
that it was outside, and only a small flower– it felt very
grateful. At sunset it folded its petals, and fell asleep,
and dreamt all night of the sun and the little bird.

On the following morning, when the flower once more
stretched forth its tender petals, like little arms,
towards the air and light, the daisy recognised the
bird's voice, but what it sang sounded so sad.
Indeed the poor bird had good reason to be sad, for it
had been caught and put into a cage close by the open window.
It sang of the happy days when it could merrily fly about,
of fresh green corn in the fields, and of the time when it
could soar almost up to the clouds.
The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage.
The little daisy would have liked so much to help it,
but what could be done? Indeed, that was very difficult
for such a small flower to find out.
It entirely forgot how beautiful everything around it was,
how warmly the sun was shining, and how splendidly
white its own petals were. It could only think of the poor
captive bird, for which it could do nothing.
Then two little boys came out of the garden; one of them
had a large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had
cut the tulips. They came straight towards the little daisy,
which could not understand what they wanted.

“Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark,” said one of the
boys, and began to cut out a square round the daisy,
so that it remained in the centre of the grass.
“Pluck the flower off” said the other boy, and the daisy
trembled for fear, for to be pulled off meant death to it;
and it wished so much to live, as it was to go with the
square of turf into the poor captive lark's cage.
“No let it stay,” said the other boy, “it looks so pretty”.
And so it stayed, and was brought into the lark's cage.
The poor bird was lamenting its lost liberty, and beating
its wings against the wires; and the little daisy could not
speak or utter a consoling word, much as it would have
liked to do so. So the forenoon passed.

“I have no water,” said the captive lark, “they have all
gone out, and forgotten to give me anything to drink.
My throat is dry and burning. I feel as if I had fire and
ice within me, and the air is so oppressive.
Alas! I must die, and part with the warm sunshine,
the fresh green meadows, and all the beauty that
God has created.” And it thrust its beak into the piece
of grass, to refresh itself a little.
Then it noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed
it with its beak and said: “You must also fade in here,
poor little flower. You and the piece of grass are all they
have given me in exchange for the whole world, which
I enjoyed outside. Each little blade of grass shall be a
green tree for me, each of your white petals a fragrant
flower. Alas! you only remind me of what I have lost.”
“I wish I could console the poor lark,” thought the daisy.
It could not move one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its delicate petals streamed forth, and was much stronger
than such flowers usually have: the bird noticed it, although
it was dying with thirst, and in its pain tore up the
green blades of grass, but did not touch the flower.

The evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the
poor bird a drop of water; it opened its beautiful wings,
and fluttered about in its anguish; a faint and mournful
“Tweet, tweet,” was all it could utter, then it bent its
little head towards the flower, and its heart broke for
want and longing. The flower could not, as on the previous evening, fold up its petals and sleep; it dropped sorrowfully.
The boys only came the next morning; when they saw
the dead bird, they began to cry bitterly, dug a nice
grave for it, and adorned it with flowers.
The bird's body was placed in a pretty red box; they
wished to bury it with royal honours. While it was alive
and sang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage;
now, they cried over it and covered it with flowers.
The piece of turf, with the little daisy in it, was thrown
out on the dusty highway. Nobody thought of the
flower which had felt so much for the bird and
had so greatly desired to comfort it.  

By Hans Christian Anderson

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