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In the garden stood many tall, stiff, rich flowers, who held their heads very high that they might be better seen. They did not notice the little Daisy outside there, but the Daisy looked in at them the more, and thought, “How rich and beautiful they are! Yes, the pretty birds fly to them and visit them. I am glad that I stand so near to them, and can enjoy the sight of their beauty!"

And just as she thought that, “keevit!"' down flew the Lark. But not down to the great, rich flowers; no, down into the grass to the Daisy, who started so with joy, that it did not know what to think.

The little bird danced round about it, and sang, "Oh, how soft the grass is! and see what a lovely little flower, with gold in its heart, and silver on its dress!" For the yellow point in the Daisy looked like gold, and the little leaves round it shone silvery white.

How happy was the little Daisy! No one can think how happy! The bird kissed it with his beak, and sang to it, and then flew up again into the blue air.

The Daisy looked at the other flowers in the garden, for they had seen the Lark kiss and speak to the little flower, and they must have known what a joy it was.

But the tulips stood up twice as stiff as before, and they looked quite red, for they were angry. The poor little flower could see very well that all the flowers were angry, and that hurt it very much.

At this moment there came into the garden a girl, with a great sharp, shining knife. She went straight up to the tulips, and cut off one after another of them.

“Oh," said the Daisy, "this is dreadful! now it is all over with them."

Then the girl went away with the tulips. The Daisy was glad to stand out in the grass, and to be only a poor little flower.

It felt very grateful; and when the sun went down it folded its leaves and went to sleep, and dreamed all night about the sun and the pretty little bird.

Next morning, when the flower again stretched out all its white leaves, like little arms, toward the sky and the light, it heard again the voice of the bird, but the song he was singing was sad.

Yes, the poor Lark was very sad; he was caught, and now sat in a cage close by the open window.

He sang of happy and free roaming. He sang of the young, green corn in the fields, and of the journey he might make on his wings, high through the air.

The Daisy wished very much to help him. But what was it to do? Yes, that was very hard to find out.

Just then two little boys came out into the garden. One of them carried in his hand the knife which the little girl had used to cut off the tulips.

They went straight up to the little Daisy, who could not at all make out what they wanted.

"Here we may find a fine piece of turf for the Lark," said one of the boys; and he cut out a square patch round about the Daisy, so that the flower stood in the middle of the piece of grass.

“Tear off the flower,” said one boy. “No, let it stay," said the other; "it looks so pretty."

And so it was put into the Lark's cage. But the

poor bird sang sadly, and beat his wings against the wires of his prison house.

And the little Daisy could not speak,-could not say a kind word to him, gladly as it would have done so.

“There is no water here,” said the Lark. “They have all gone out and have forgotten to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and burning. Oh, I must die, and leave the warm sunshine, the fresh green, and all that God has made.'

Then the poor bird saw the Daisy, and he nodded to it, and kissed it, and said, “You also must die here, you pretty little flower. They have given you to me with a little patch of green grass on which you grow, instead of the whole world, which was mine out there! Every little blade of grass shall be a great tree for me, and every one of your sweet leaves a great flower. You only tell me how much I have lost."

"If I could only help him!" thought the little Daisy. It could not stir a leaf, but sent such a stream of perfume from its leaves that the Lark noticed it, and was grateful. He had already eaten all the green blades of grass, in his pain, but did not touch the flower.

Night came, and no one brought the poor bird a drop. Then he stretched out his pretty wings and his head sank down toward the flower, and his heart broke.

Then the Daisy could not fold its leaves and sleep as it had done the night before. It drooped sadly to the earth.

The boys did not come till the next morning. When they found the bird dead, they were very sorry and cried for a long while. Then they dug him a little grave and planted pretty flowers on it.

While the Lark was alive and sang they forgot him, and let him sit in his cage and suffer. But now that he was dead he had flowers and many tears.

But the patch of earth with the Daisy in it was thrown out into the high road. No one thought of the flower that had felt the most for the little bird and would have been so glad to help him.

The Fir Tree.

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

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UT in the forest was a pretty little Fir Tree. It

stood where it could have the sunlight, and where there was plenty of air. It had many larger companions, pines as well as firs. The little Fir Tree was not happy. It wanted to become larger. It did not care for the warm sun and fresh air; it took no notice of the children who had come out to look for berries. But the children noticed it, and when they had a whole basket of berries, or had strung berries on a straw, they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and say, “How pretty and how small this one is!" The Fir Tree did not like to hear this. He did not like to be called small.

The next year he had grown a whole joint, and the year after another. “Oh, if I were only as large as the others," sighed the little Fir, "then I would spread my branches, and from my crown I would look out into the wide world. Then the birds would build nests in my boughs, and when the wind blew I would nod as proudly as they."

The sunshine and the birds, and the red clouds, and all that should have made the Fir Tree happy, gave it no pleasure.

When the winter came, and the snow lay all around, white, beautiful, and sparkling, and the Hares played about, jumping right over the little Fir Tree, it grew

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