d the winds gayly welcomed them,
while the flowers nodded on their stems, offering their bright leaves
for the Elves to rest upon, and fresh, sweet honey to refresh them.

"Now, dear Thistle, do not harm these friendly blossoms," said
Lily-Bell; "see how kindly they spread their leaves, and offer us
their dew. It would be very wrong in you to repay their care with
cruelty and pain. You will be tender for my sake, dear Thistle."

Then she went among the flowers, and they bent lovingly before her,
and laid their soft leaves against her little face, that she might see
how glad they were to welcome one so good and gentle, and kindly
offered their dew and honey to the weary little Fairy, who sat among
their fragrant petals and looked smilingly on the happy blossoms, who,
with their soft, low voices, sang her to sleep.

While Lily-Bell lay dreaming among the rose-leaves, Thistledown went
wandering through the garden. First he robbed the bees of their
honey, and rudely shook the little flowers, that he might get the dew
they had gathered to bathe their buds in. Then he chased the bright
winged flies, and wounded them with the sharp thorn he carried for a
sword; he broke the spider's shining webs, lamed the birds, and soon
wherever he passed lay wounded insects and drooping flowers; while
the winds carried the tidings over the garden, and bird and blossom
looked upon him as an evil spirit, and fled away or closed their
leaves, lest he should harm them.

Thus he went, leaving sorrow and pain behind him, till he came to the
roses where Lily-Bell lay sleeping. There, weary of his cruel sport,
he stayed to rest beneath a graceful rose-tree, where grew one
blooming flower and a tiny bud.

"Why are you so slow in blooming, little one? You are too old to be
rocked in your green cradle longer, and should be out among your
sister flowers," said Thistle, as he lay idly in the shadow of the
tree.

"My little bud is not yet strong enough to venture forth," replied the
rose, as she bent fondly over it; "the sunlight and the rain would
blight her tender form, were she to blossom now, but soon she will be
fit to bear them; till then she is content to rest beside her mother,
and to wait."

"You silly flower," said Thistledown, "see how quickly I will make you
bloom! your waiting is all useless." And speaking thus, he pulled
rudely apart the folded leaves, and laid them open to the sun and air;
while the rose mother implored the