nd and
good every one loved her. She spent her time trying to undo the mischief
naughty Thistle did, and that was why she followed him now, because she
was afraid he would get into trouble and need some one to help him.

Side by side they flew over hill and dale till they came to a pleasant
garden.

"I am tired and hungry," said Thistle; "let us rest here and see what
fun is going on."

"Now, dear Thistle, be kind and gentle, and make friends among these
flowers. See how they spread their leaves for our beds, and offer us
their honey to eat, and their dew to bathe in. It would be very wrong to
treat them badly after such a welcome as this," answered Lilybell, as
she lay down to sleep in the deep cup of one of her own flowers, as if
in a little bed hung with white curtains.

Thistle laughed and flew off to find the tulips, for he liked splendid
flowers and lived like a king. First he robbed the violets of their
honey, and shook the blue-bells roughly to get all their dew for his
bath. Then he ruffled many leaves before his bed suited him, and after a
short nap was up and away having what he called fun. He chased the
butterflies and hurt them with the sharp thorn he carried for a sword;
he broke the cobwebs laid to bleach on the grass for fairy cloth; he
pushed the little birds out of the nest and killed them; he stole pollen
from the busy bees, and laughed to see them patiently begin to fill
their little bags again. At last he came to a lovely rose-tree with one
open flower and a little bud.

"Why are you so slow about blooming, baby rose? You are too old to be
rocked in your green cradle any longer. Come out and play with me," said
Thistle, as he perched on the tree ready for more mischief.

"No, my little bud is not strong enough to meet the sun and air yet,"
answered the rose-mother, bending over her baby, while all her red
leaves trembled with fear, for the wind had told her the harm this
cruel fairy had been doing in the garden.

"You silly flower, to wait so long. See how quickly I will make the ugly
green bud a pretty pink rose," cried Thistle, as he pulled open the
folded bud so rudely that the little leaves fell all broken on the
ground.

"It was my first and only one, and I was so fond and proud of it! Now
you have killed it, cruel fairy, and I am all alone," sobbed the mother,
while her tears fell like rain on the poor bud fading in the hot sun.

Thistle was ashamed of himself, but he would not say