she could not believe the bee was really speaking
to her, but she heard again, "The flowers want you to come into the
garden."

Martha walked down the path to the Rose Bush. "I'll find out if that
bee is telling the truth," she said.

"I am so glad you came," said a Rose, and as Martha looked it seemed
that she could almost see the face of a little girl in its petals. "I
wanted some one to talk to," said the Rose.

"So did I," said a Lily.

"We all are glad to see you," said a Tulip, "for we never have anyone
to talk to."

"I never knew before that you could talk," said Martha.

"Of course we can," said the Rose, "but we are tired of telling stories
to one another."

"Oh! can you tell stories?" asked Martha as she seated herself on the
ground beside the flowers.

"Yes, indeed!" said the Rose. "I'll tell mine first."

"Did you ever hear how the Rose happened to have thorns?" she asked.

Martha said she never did, and the Rose said, "I will tell you."

"Before I bloomed here I lived in the warm climates, and although you
may not think it I also lived in the land where Jack Frost dwells. But
I love best the land where the nightingale lives and tells me of his
love. One night when he was singing and telling me that my perfume was
the sweetest in the garden and my damask cheek the softest, a Thorn
Bush which grew near and had tried many times to win him from me began
to tell how sweet were his notes and how graceful his form."

"'Do come and sing in my bush,' she said, 'and let me show you how
strong I am. You will be safer in my bush than on the swaying branches
of the Rose.'

"But the nightingale would not leave me, and told the Thorn Bush it was
far too bold and its sharp points far too treacherous. 'You are not so
fragrant as the Rose,' he said, 'and my love is all for her.'

"'You shall pay for this,' screamed the Thorn Bush, angrily, 'and you
will find that your beautiful Rose has thorns as well as I.' But the
nightingale only sang lower and more sweetly to me, and we forgot the
Thorn Bush in our happiness.

"The cruel Thorn, however, did not forget or forgive, and one day she
twined herself around my roots and pressed into my tender stems until
she was a part of me. I tried to cry out, but her strength was greater
than mine. That night, when the nightingale came to sing his love
song, she raised one of her sharp thorns and pierced his foot.

"'You see your beautiful Rose has hidden thorn