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good God is; and though the daisy could not speak its thoughts and feelings, the lark, in his song, said all that was in her mind. And the little daisy looked up with a kind of awe at the happy bird which could sing and fly, though it was not sad that it was bound to one spot on the green earth. "Can I not see and hear?" it thought. "The sun shines on me, and the wind kisses me. Oh, how fortunate I am."

On the other side of the railing in the beautiful garden there were many grand flowers; the less scent they had, the more proudly they thought of themselves. The peonies, puffed up with pride, tried all they could to look larger than the rose; but people don't value flowers for their size but for their sweetness. The tulips were of the most splendid colours, and they knew it well enough, for they held themselves quite upright so that everybody should be sure to notice them.

They did not pay the slightest attention to the modest little daisy; but the daisy looked at them with wonder, and thought "how rich and beautiful they are! The bird that sings so sweetly will surely come down to visit them. How glad I am that I am so near, for I shall be able to see their happy meeting." Just then the lark sang "Quir-e-vit," and came down suddenly on the grass; but its visit was not to the tulips and peonies, in the grand garden, but to the poor little flower in the green grass, which was so confused with the greatness of its joy that it did not know what to think.

The merry little bird danced round it and sang,

"Oh, what beautiful soft grass, and what a sweet little flower with its golden heart and silver dress." The middle of the daisy did indeed look as yellow as gold, and the fringe round it was of a silvery white.

The surprise and delight of the daisy at this greeting can in no way be described; and the bird kissed it with its beak, and sang to it in the most beautiful soft tones, when it again flew up into the blue air. It was, at the very least, a full quarter of an hour before the daisy felt itself calm again. It gave one modest look into the fine garden, to see what the fine flowers there thought of the lark's visit; but the tulips looked more stiff than ever, and their faces were so sharp and so red, that it was evident they were in a rage. As for the thick-headed peonies, they seemed ready to burst with anger, which made them look only more stupid than usual.

It was fortunate they could not speak, or they would have let their tongues blab noisily against the poor little daisy. The poor flower saw plainly that they were in a bad humour, and she was much grieved at it. At that very moment a girl came into the garden from the house, with a large sharp knife in her hand, and going straight to where the tulips stood, cut them off their stems, one after the other. "Oh, dear!" the daisy sighed, "how dreadful that is, and now it is all over with them." After this, the cruel girl went away with the tulips. Now, had not the daisy reason to be glad that she was in the green grass, where nobody took

any notice of her, and that she was only a modest little field flower? She felt grateful at being spared; and when the sun went down, folded her leaves as if in prayer, slept softly, and dreamt the whole night through, of the sun and the beautiful bird.

The next morning when the little flower stretched out its white leaves, like longing little arms to the air and light, it heard the lark's voice, but what it sang sounded quite sad and mournful. The poor bird had but too good reason for not being cheerful, for it had been caught, and was now in a cage hanging close by the open window.

It sang how pleasant it was to fly about freely and joyfully through the blue sky, and see all the beautiful fields and trees. It sang of the young green corn in the fields, and of the delightful flights it used to take in the past. The sorrowful bird missed its rambles through the air and its wonted liberty, and could not resign itself patiently to its fate. It sat there in its prison, behind the brass bars, and bitterly bewailed its sad fate.

The tender, kind-hearted daisy wished to do something to comfort the lark, but did not know how to set about it. She thought no more of the beautiful green grass, the warm sun, or her own white leaves. Her thoughts were ever with the unhappy bird shut up in a cage, whom she could not help.

Just then two little boys came running out of the garden, one of whom had in his hand a knife large and sharp, like that with which the girl had

cut the flowers. They ran directly towards the spot where the little daisy sat, sad and silent with drooping head, little dreaming what their inten

tions were.

"Here we can cut a beautiful piece of turf for our lark," one of the boys said; and he began to cut out a square piece of turf, in the middle of which the daisy grew.

"Pluck that flower," one of the boys said; and the daisy trembled with fear, for to be plucked was to lose its life, and just now it very much wished to live, for it was to go into the cage of the lark.

"No, let it remain," the other said, "for it makes it look pretty." So it remained, and was put into the cage of the lark.

The poor bird loudly lamented its lost liberty, striking its prison bars with its wings, and the little daisy could not speak a word to comfort him. Not a word could it utter, much as it wished to console the poor prisoner. Thus passed the whole morning.

"They are

"No water," the lark complained. all gone out, and have forgotten me: they have not given me a single drop to drink. My throat is parched and burning, and the air is so oppressive. I shall die, and shall leave for ever the warm sun, the green fields and trees, and all the beautiful things God has created. And in despair it bored its beak deep into the cool turf.

Its eyes then fell upon the daisy, to which the bird nodded, and whispered, "You, too, must

wither here, you poor innocent flower. They have given me you, and this little piece of turf, instead of the whole world, which I possessed. Each blade of grass shall be a green tree to me, and each of your white leaves a sweet-smelling flower. Oh, you only recall to me how much I have lost!" Oh! if I could but comfort the sweet singing bird," the little daisy thought. But it could not

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move a leaf. It gave, however, much more of its scent to please the lark, than it used to do when it grew wild in the fields. The bird noticed this, too; for although it was dying of thirst, and in its sufferings bit off the blades of grass, it took care not to do the flower any injury.

It was evening, and still no one came to give the poor bird any water. It stretched out its beautiful wings, which shook with the heaving of its breast. Its once joyous song was now only a mournful "Pip-pip." Its head drooped down towards the flower, and the dear little bird's heart broke from longing, and from want. The flower, too, was so withered, that it was unable to fold its leaves and sleep quietly; it hung on its stalk, drooping to the earth.

The next morning the boys appeared, and when they saw the bird lying dead in its cage, they cried bitterly. They dug a grave under a rose-bush, and strewed it with the leaves of flowers, for it was to have a royal funeral. While it was alive and sang to them, they forgot it, and let it die shamefully of want in its narrow prison; but now that it was dead, they thought to honour it with tears and pomp.

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