"I must tie this bush so that it cannot hurt any one," the gardener
said one day as he passed it. "The thorns on it are growing larger and
larger every day." So he cut a long, straight stick, and painted it
green, and stuck it in the ground beside the prickly little bush. Then
he tied the bush tightly to the stick, which kept it from leaning over
the path.
"Be very careful not to go near that ugly little bush," said the
children to each other. "It will scratch you even worse than the cat
scratches."
All this was very discouraging, and the prickly little bush drooped
and did not feel like growing.
The days of the summer grew warmer, the sun shone, and soft rains fell
upon the garden. A pleasant breeze came singing down the path, and the
sun, and the rain, and the breeze, each one, spoke to the prickly
little bush.
"Climb up a little higher," the great, yellow sun seemed to say. So
the prickly little bush pulled and stretched its prickly branches up
toward the blue sky, and as it grew higher and higher, its thorns
went, too, out of the way of the rabbit and the children.
"Push harder," the pattering raindrops seemed to say to the roots of
the prickly little bush as they soaked down through the ground. So the
roots of the prickly little bush pushed, and pushed until the branches
seemed bursting, and green leaves and tiny buds came and covered over
the thorns so that they could scarcely be seen at all.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297