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.
