336 POPULAR TALES OF FLOWERS 
What nonsense you talk, little friend. The snowflakes 
and 1 will admire you. Do not be a grumbler. Do you 
not remember that you are a little Christmas rose? You 
are named for the Christ Child. You should be more 
happy and contented than other plants. Be brave, little 
rose. The snow is growing deeper about you. Push up 
and keep your head above the drifts. Care well for your 
precious buds, that they may open into perfect blossoms. 
Keep up heart, little rose. You do not yet know for 
what purpose you were left to bloom so late. But be 
sure of this, we were all made for some wise purpose. 
When the time comes we shall know.” 
Then the shaggy pine fingers of the old tree touched 
the rose with a gentle caiess as he lifted his tall head once 
more to the winds. He did not speak again ; but the little 
rose, nestling at his feet, thought long of the old pine’s 
wise advice. 
“Perhaps he is rght,” she murmured to herself. 
“ Perhaps I had better do as he said. All the other 
flowers are dead. If I was made for a wise purpose, I 
shall not long be forgotten.” 
So the mountain rose lifted her leaves bravely. She 
sighed no longer. She took good care of her beautiful 
buds, and watched them as day by day they grew. It was 
the day before Christmas when the buds opened lovely 
and white and perfect. The old pine saw them, and 
bowed his head to admire the blossoms. He shook all 
over as he laughed down on the blossoms peeping up 
through the snow. 
“Ho! ho!” laughed the dark old pine. “Who is un- 
happy now?” 
And the blossoms smiled back contentedly. 
That day two little children wandered hand in hand up 
the mountain-side. Their father was the wood-cutter wno 
lived in the tiny hut below. Their mother was the pale, 
sick woman who lay in the tiny hut and answ’ered her 
children by neither look nor word. By their mother’s bed 
sat the father, speechless with grief. About the room 
moved the kind neighbour, with tears in her ey^es. 
Our mother is very ill,” whispered the children. 
The kind woman shook her head sadly. 
I fear, ’ ’ she said, “ that your mother will not live till 
sunset,” 
