than the roses.
The tulips knew that they were marked with beautiful colors, and held
themselves bolt upright so that they might be seen more plainly.

They did not notice the little daisy outside, but she looked at them
and thought: "How rich and beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird
flies down to visit them. How glad I am that I grow so near them, that I
may admire their beauty!"

Just at this moment the lark flew down, crying "Tweet," but he did not
go to the tall peonies and tulips; he hopped into the grass near the
lowly daisy. She trembled for joy and hardly knew what to think. The
little bird hopped round the daisy, singing, "Oh, what sweet, soft
grass, and what a lovely little flower, with gold in its heart and
silver on its dress!" For the yellow center in the daisy looked like
gold, and the leaves around were glittering white, like silver.

How happy the little daisy felt, no one can describe. The bird kissed
her with his beak, sang to her, and then flew up again into the blue air
above. It was at least a quarter of an hour before the daisy could
recover herself. Half ashamed, yet happy in herself, she glanced at the
other flowers; they must have seen the honor she had received, and would
understand her delight and pleasure.

But the tulips looked prouder than ever; indeed, they were evidently
quite vexed about it. The peonies were disgusted, and could they have
spoken, the poor little daisy would no doubt have received a good
scolding. She could see they were all out of temper, and it made her
very sorry.

At this moment there came into the garden a girl with a large,
glittering knife in her hand. She went straight to the tulips and cut
off several of them.

"O dear," sighed the daisy, "how shocking! It is all over with them
now." The girl carried the tulips away, and the daisy felt very glad to
grow outside in the grass and to be only a poor little flower. When the
sun set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep. She dreamed the
whole night long of the warm sun and the pretty little bird.

The next morning, when she joyfully stretched out her white leaves once
more to the warm air and the light, she recognized the voice of the
bird, but his song sounded mournful and sad.

Alas! he had good reason to be sad: he had been caught and made a
prisoner in a cage that hung close by the open window. He sang of the
happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free; of the young
green corn