The Daisy

Author: Andersen Hans Christian | Genre: Tale | Year: | Catalogue: Global database Все варианты сказки на сайте

Now listen! In the country, close by the high road, stood a farmhouse; perhaps
you have passed by and seen it yourself. There was a little flower garden with
painted wooden palings in front of it; close by was a ditch, on its fresh green
bank grew a little daisy; the sun shone as warmly and brightly upon it as on the
magnificent garden flowers, and therefore it thrived well. One morning it had
quite opened, and its little snow-white petals stood round the yellow centre,
like the rays of the sun. It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass, and
that it was a poor despised flower; on the contrary, it was quite happy, and turned
towards the sun, looking upward and listening to the song of the lark high up
in the air.

The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great holiday, but it
was only Monday. All the children were at school, and while they were sitting
on the forms and learning their lessons, it sat on its thin green stalk and
learnt from the sun and from its surroundings how kind God is, and it rejoiced
that the song of the little lark expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own
feelings. With a sort of reverence the daisy looked up to the bird that could
fly and sing, but it did not feel envious. “I can see and hear,” it thought;
“the sun shines upon me, and the forest kisses me. How rich I am!”

In the garden close by grew many large and magnificent flowers, and, strange
to say, the less fragrance they had the haughtier and prouder they were. The
peonies puffed themselves up in order to be larger than the roses, but size
is not everything! The tulips had the finest colours, and they knew it well,
too, for they were standing bolt upright like candles, that one might see them
the better. In their pride they did not see the little daisy, which looked over
to them and thought, “How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the pretty
bird will fly down and call upon them. Thank God, that I stand so near and can
at least see all the splendour.” And while the daisy was still thinking, the
lark came flying down, crying “Tweet,” but not to the peonies and tulips—no,
into the grass to the poor daisy. Its joy was so great that it did not know
what to think. The little bird hopped round it and sang, “How beautifully soft
the grass is, and what a lovely little flower with its golden heart and silver
dress is growing here.” The yellow centre in the daisy did indeed look like
gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as silver.

How happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea. The bird kissed it with
its beak, sang to it, and then rose again up to the blue sky. It was certainly
more than a quarter of an hour before the daisy recovered its senses. Half ashamed,
yet glad at heart, it looked over to the other flowers in the garden; surely
they had witnessed its pleasure and the honour that had been done to it; they
understood its joy. But the tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces
were pointed and red, because they were vexed. The peonies were sulky; it was
well that they could not speak, otherwise they would have given the daisy a
good lecture. The little flower could very well see that they were ill at ease,
and pitied them sincerely.

Shortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a large sharp knife. She
went to the tulips and began cutting them off, one after another. “Ugh!” sighed
the daisy, “that is terrible; now they are done for.”

The girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad that it was outside, and
only a small flower—it felt very grateful. At sunset it folded its petals, and
fell asleep, and dreamt all night of the sun and the little bird.

  • On the following morning, when the flower once more stretched forth its tender
    petals, like little arms, towards the air and light, the daisy recognised the
    bird’s voice, but what it sang sounded so sad. Indeed the poor bird had good
    reason to be sad, for it had been caught and put into a cage close by the open
    window. It sang of the happy days when it could merrily fly about, of fresh
    green corn in the fields, and of the time when it could soar almost up to the
    clouds. The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage. The little daisy
    would have liked so much to help it, but what could be done? Indeed, that was
    very difficult for such a small flower to find out. It entirely forgot how beautiful
    everything around it was, how warmly the sun was shining, and how splendidly
    white its own petals were. It could only think of the poor captive bird, for
    which it could do nothing. Then two little boys came out of the garden; one
    of them had a large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had cut the tulips.
    They came straight towards the little daisy, which could not understand what
    they wanted.

    “Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark,” said one of the boys, and began
    to cut out a square round the daisy, so that it remained in the centre of the

    “Pluck the flower off” said the other boy, and the daisy trembled for fear,
    for to be pulled off meant death to it; and it wished so much to live, as it
    was to go with the square of turf into the poor captive lark’s cage.

    “No let it stay,” said the other boy, “it looks so pretty.”

    And so it stayed, and was brought into the lark’s cage. The poor bird was lamenting
    its lost liberty, and beating its wings against the wires; and the little daisy
    could not speak or utter a consoling word, much as it would have liked to do
    so. So the forenoon passed.

    “I have no water,” said the captive lark, “they have all gone out, and forgotten
    to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and burning. I feel as if I had
    fire and ice within me, and the air is so oppressive. Alas! I must die, and
    part with the warm sunshine, the fresh green meadows, and all the beauty that
    God has created.” And it thrust its beak into the piece of grass, to refresh
    itself a little. Then it noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed
    it with its beak and said: “You must also fade in here, poor little flower.
    You and the piece of grass are all they have given me in exchange for the whole
    world, which I enjoyed outside. Each little blade of grass shall be a green
    tree for me, each of your white petals a fragrant flower. Alas! you only remind
    me of what I have lost.”

    “I wish I could console the poor lark,” thought the daisy. It could not move
    one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its delicate petals streamed forth,
    and was much stronger than such flowers usually have: the bird noticed it, although
    it was dying with thirst, and in its pain tore up the green blades of grass,
    but did not touch the flower.

    The evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a drop of water;
    it opened its beautiful wings, and fluttered about in its anguish; a faint and
    mournful “Tweet, tweet,” was all it could utter, then it bent its little head
    towards the flower, and its heart broke for want and longing. The flower could
    not, as on the previous evening, fold up its petals and sleep; it dropped sorrowfully.
    The boys only came the next morning; when they saw the dead bird, they began
    to cry bitterly, dug a nice grave for it, and adorned it with flowers. The bird’s
    body was placed in a pretty red box; they wished to bury it with royal honours.
    While it was alive and sang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage;
    now, they cried over it and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf, with
    the little daisy in it, was thrown out on the dusty highway. Nobody thought
    of the flower which had felt so much for the bird and had so greatly desired
    to comfort it.