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"I think I'm dying," said the maiden-pink. The blades of grass observed, most politely, that they were already half-dead. The hazel-bush was not feeling well either and the linnet thought the air so heavy that he was not at all inclined to sing.
There was the maiden-pink, meeker and redder and gentler than any, and a few blades of grass, who were nice and green, but poor and quite grateful if one as much as looked at them.
They would talk about an event like this for days together. But then they lapsed into quietude again; and time wore on to summer. Then, one morning, the maiden-pink felt strangely unwell. Her stalks and leaves were slack and she had a regular pain in her roots. Her flowers were so queer and loose, she thought.
"He is tired of hanging up there with all that rain. But he has to wait till the wind comes for him." "Good-bye," said the maiden-pink. "And thank you for the pleasant time we have had together. I can hold out no longer." And then she died. All the friends looked at one another in dismay: "We must get hold of the wind," said the hazel-bush, who had more life left in him than the others.
If anything joyful happened to any one of the friends, they all rejoiced. When the maiden-pink and the bell-flower budded, the hazel-bush offered his congratulations, the linnet struck his longest trill and the blades of grass appointed a deputation and bowed respectfully to the ground and each shed a dewy tear of emotion.
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