fume is
so strong, you make me think of the dead maidens. Ah! is little Kay
really dead then? The roses have been in the earth, and they say no."

"Cling, clang," tolled the hyacinth bells. "We are not tolling for
little Kay; we do not know him. We sing our song, the only one we
know."

Then Gerda went to the buttercups that were glittering amongst the
bright green leaves.

"You are little bright suns," said Gerda; "tell me if you know
where I can find my play-fellow."

And the buttercups sparkled gayly, and looked again at Gerda. What
song could the buttercups sing? It was not about Kay.

"The bright warm sun shone on a little court, on the first warm
day of spring. His bright beams rested on the white walls of the
neighboring house; and close by bloomed the first yellow flower of the
season, glittering like gold in the sun's warm ray. An old woman sat
in her arm chair at the house door, and her granddaughter, a poor
and pretty servant-maid came to see her for a short visit. When she
kissed her grandmother there was gold everywhere: the gold of the
heart in that holy kiss; it was a golden morning; there was gold in
the beaming sunlight, gold in the leaves of the lowly flower, and on
the lips of the maiden. There, that is my story," said the buttercup.

"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda; "she is longing to see
me, and grieving for me as she did for little Kay; but I shall soon go
home now, and take little Kay with me. It is no use asking the
flowers; they know only their own songs, and can give me no
information."

And then she tucked up her little dress, that she might run
faster, but the narcissus caught her by the leg as she was jumping
over it; so she stopped and looked at the tall yellow flower, and
said, "Perhaps you may know something."

Then she stooped down quite close to the flower, and listened; and
what did he say?

"I can see myself, I can see myself," said the narcissus. "Oh, how
sweet is my perfume! Up in a little room with a bow window, stands a
little dancing girl, half undressed; she stands sometimes on one
leg, and sometimes on both, and looks as if she would tread the
whole world under her feet. She is nothing but a delusion. She is
pouring water out of a tea-pot on a piece of stuff which she holds
in her hand; it is her bodice. 'Cleanliness is a good thing,' she
says. Her white dress hangs on a peg; it has also been washed in the
tea-pot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and