What Happened to the Thistle

"

"Yes, there's the ghost of one - the very last one." Her husband pointed to the silvery shell of the flower - a flower itself.

"Isn't it lovely!" she said. "We must have one just like that carved around the frame of our picture."

Once again the young man had to climb the fence, and pluck the silvery shell of the thistle flower. It pricked his fingers well, because he had called it a ghost. Then it was brought into the garden, to the mansion, and to the parlor. There hung a large painting - "The Newly Married Couple!" In the groom's buttonhole a thistle was painted. They spoke of that thistle flower, and they spoke of this thistle shell, this last silvered, shining flower of the thistle which they had brought in with them, and which was to be copied in the carving of the frame. The air carried their words about, far and wide.

"What strange things can happen to one," said the thistle. "My oldest child was put in a buttonhole, and my youngest in a picture frame. I wonder where I shall go."

The old donkey by the roadside looked long and lovingly at the thistle. "Come to me, my sweet," he said. "I cannot come to you because my tether is not long enough."

But the thistle did not answer. She grew more and more thoughtful, and she thought on right up to Christmas time, when this flower came of all her thinking:

"When one's children are safe inside, a mother may be content to stand outside the fence."

"That's a most honorable thought," said the sunbeam. "You too shall also have a good place."

"In a flowerpot or in a frame?" the thistle asked.

"In a fairy tale," said the sunbeam. And here it is.