THE THISTLE'S EXPERIENCES [1]
which unfolded itself
that it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a
buttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of
them was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in
the sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew
by night; bloomed- were visited by bees and hornets, who looked
after the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and
left the flower where it was.
"The thievish rabble!" said the Thistle. "If I could only stab
every one of them! But I cannot."
The flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new
ones came.
"You come in good time," said the Thistle. "I am expecting every
moment to get across the fence."
A few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and
listened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.
The old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the
field-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his
halter was too short, and he could not reach it.
And the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to
whose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he
had come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the
national escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great
thistle has a right to a great thought.
"One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,"
said the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he
might be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.
And the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell
from the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less
scent. The gardener's boy sang in the garden, across the palings:
"Up the hill, down the dale we wend,
That is life, from beginning to end."
The young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but
it was a long time to Christmas yet.
"Here I am standing yet!" said the Thistle. "It is as if nobody
thought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and
they have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won't take a
single step-because I can't."
A few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last
single flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the
roots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the
flower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.
One day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden.
They went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.
"There's the great thistle still growing," she said. "It has no
flowers now."
"Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still," said he.
And he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like
a flower themselves.
"It is pretty, certainly," she said. "Such an one must be carved
on the frame of our picture."
And the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to
break off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then
he had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden,
and into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a
picture- "Young Couple." A thistle-flower was painted in the
buttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about
the thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming
like silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.
And the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.
"What one can experience!" said the Thistle Bush. "My first born
was put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame.
Where shall I go?"
And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the
Thistle.
"Come to me, my nibble darling!" said he. "I can't get across to
you."
But the Thistle did not answer. He became more and more
thoughtful- kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and
then a flower of thought
that it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a
buttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of
them was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in
the sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew
by night; bloomed- were visited by bees and hornets, who looked
after the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and
left the flower where it was.
"The thievish rabble!" said the Thistle. "If I could only stab
every one of them! But I cannot."
The flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new
ones came.
"You come in good time," said the Thistle. "I am expecting every
moment to get across the fence."
A few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and
listened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.
The old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the
field-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his
halter was too short, and he could not reach it.
And the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to
whose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he
had come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the
national escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great
thistle has a right to a great thought.
"One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,"
said the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he
might be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.
And the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell
from the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less
scent. The gardener's boy sang in the garden, across the palings:
"Up the hill, down the dale we wend,
That is life, from beginning to end."
The young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but
it was a long time to Christmas yet.
"Here I am standing yet!" said the Thistle. "It is as if nobody
thought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and
they have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won't take a
single step-because I can't."
A few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last
single flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the
roots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the
flower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.
One day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden.
They went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.
"There's the great thistle still growing," she said. "It has no
flowers now."
"Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still," said he.
And he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like
a flower themselves.
"It is pretty, certainly," she said. "Such an one must be carved
on the frame of our picture."
And the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to
break off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then
he had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden,
and into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a
picture- "Young Couple." A thistle-flower was painted in the
buttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about
the thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming
like silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.
And the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.
"What one can experience!" said the Thistle Bush. "My first born
was put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame.
Where shall I go?"
And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the
Thistle.
"Come to me, my nibble darling!" said he. "I can't get across to
you."
But the Thistle did not answer. He became more and more
thoughtful- kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and
then a flower of thought