In the morning the sun shone in on the little flattened Snowdrop, which looked as if it were painted on the floor. The maid who swept the room picked it up and placed it in one of the books on the table, for she thought it had fallen out when she was clearing up and putting things in order. And so once again the Flower lay between verses, printed verses this time, which are grander than the written ones-at least they cost more.
Years passed, throughout which the book stood on its shelf. But now at last it was taken down, opened, and read. It was a good book-the songs and poems of the Danish poet, Ambrosius Stub, who is well worth your knowing. The man who was reading the book turned a page.
"Ah, here is a flower!" he said. "A snowdrop! It is with significance indeed that it lies here. Poor Ambrosius Stub! He was a snowdrop, too, a poet-snowdrop. He was before his time, and therefore he had to face sharp winds and sleet as he passed among the gentlemen of Fünen; he was like a flower in a water glass, a flower in a valentine; a summer fool, winter fool, full of fun and drollery. And yet he was the first, the only youthfully fresh Danish poet. Yes, lie there as a marker in this book, little Snowdrop. You are laid here with meaning!"
And then the Snowdrop again was placed in the book, and felt both honored and delighted to know that it was a marker in the beautiful book of poetry, and that he who had first written and sung about the flower had also been a snowdrop and been mocked in the winter. Now the Flower understood this in its own way, just as we understand things in our way.
That is the fairy story of the Snowdrop.