is my story!'

'I daresay what you tell me is very pretty, but you speak so sadly and
you never mention little Kay.'

What says the hyacinth?

'They were three beautiful sisters, all most delicate, and quite
transparent. One wore a crimson robe, the other a blue, and the third
was pure white. These three danced hand-in-hand, by the edge of the lake
in the moonlight. They were human beings, not fairies of the wood. The
fragrant air attracted them, and they vanished into the wood; here the
fragrance was stronger still. Three coffins glide out of the wood
towards the lake, and in them lie the maidens. The fire-flies flutter
lightly round them with their little flickering torches. Do these
dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The scent of the flower says
that they are corpses. The evening bell tolls their knell.'

'You make me quite sad,' said little Gerda; 'your perfume is so strong
it makes me think of those dead maidens. Oh, is little Kay really dead?
The roses have been down underground, and they say no.'

'Ding, dong,' tolled the hyacinth bells; 'we are not tolling for little
Kay; we know nothing about him. We sing our song, the only one we know.'

And Gerda went on to the buttercups shining among their dark green
leaves.

'You are a bright little sun,' said Gerda. 'Tell me if you know where I
shall find my playfellow.'

The buttercup shone brightly and returned Gerda's glance. What song
could the buttercup sing? It would not be about Kay.

'God's bright sun shone into a little court on the first day of spring.
The sunbeams stole down the neighbouring white wall, close to which
bloomed the first yellow flower of the season; it shone like burnished
gold in the sun. An old woman had brought her arm-chair out into the
sun; her granddaughter, a poor and pretty little maid-servant, had come
to pay her a short visit, and she kissed her. There was gold, heart's
gold, in the kiss. Gold on the lips, gold on the ground, and gold above,
in the early morning beams! Now that is my little story,' said the
buttercup.

'Oh, my poor old grandmother!' sighed Gerda. 'She will be longing to see
me, and grieving about me, as she did about Kay. But I shall soon go
home again and take Kay with me. It is useless for me to ask the flowers
about him. They only know their own stories, and have no information to
give me.'

Then she tucked up her little dress, so that she might run the faster;
but the narcissus blossoms struck he