en had also now received the heart and hand of the lady in
question. They were a handsome pair--it was a good match.

"That match I made up!" said the Thistle; and he thought of the
flower he had given for the buttonhole. Every flower that opened heard
of this occurrence.

"I shall certainly be transplanted into the garden," thought the
Thistle, "and perhaps put into a pot, which crowds one in. That is said
to be the greatest of all honors."

And the Thistle pictured this to himself in such a lively
manner, that at last he said, with full conviction, "I am to be
transplanted into a pot."

Then he promised every little thistle flower 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 yo