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
