But when he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little, his eye fell upon the daisy, who was trying so hard to speak to him. He kissed her with his beak, and said, "You must also wither in here, poor little flower. They've given me you and your little patch of green grass instead of the whole world that was mine out there! Every little blade of your grass shall be a green tree for me, and every one of your white leaves a fragrant flower. Ah, seeing you only tells me again how much I have lost!"
"Oh, if I could only help him and comfort him!" thought the daisy.
She couldn't move a leaf, but the scent that streamed forth from her delicate leaves was far stronger than a daisy ever gave forth before. The lark noticed it, and though in his thirst and pain he plucked at the blades of grass, he did not touch the flower.
The evening came, and still nobody appeared to bring the bird a single drop of water. At last the lark stretched out his pretty wings and beat the air desperately; his song changed to a mournful peeping; his little head sank down toward the flower, and his little bird's heart broke with want and yearning. And the flower couldn't fold its leaves and sleep, as she had done the night before; she too drooped sorrowful and sick towards the earth.
It wasn't until the next morning that the boys came; and when they found the bird dead, they wept many tears and dug him a neat grave, adorned with leaves and flowers. They put him into a pretty red box, for the poor bird was to have a royal funeral. While he was alive and singing they forgot him and let him sit in a cage and suffer; but now that he was dead, he was to have many tears and a royal funeral.
But the patch of turf with the little daisy on it was thrown out into the dusty road; and no one thought any more of the flower that had felt the deepest for the little bird, and had tried so hard to console him and help him.