One day the rain fell and it trickled through the
ice and snow down into the ground. And presently
a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced
down through the earth, and tapped on the bulb.
``Come in,'' said the flower.
``I can't do that,'' said the sunbeam; ``I'm not
strong enough to lift the latch. I shall be stronger
when springtime comes.''
``When will it be spring?'' asked the flower of
every little sunbeam that rapped on its door. But
for a long time it was winter. The ground was still
covered with snow, and every night there was ice in
the water. The flower grew quite tired of waiting.
``How long it is!'' it said. ``I feel quite cramped.
I must stretch myself and rise up a little. I must
lift the latch, and look out, and say `good-morning'
to the spring.''
So the flower pushed and pushed. The walls
were softened by the rain and warmed by the
little sunbeams, so the flower shot up from under
the snow, with a pale green bud on its stalk and
some long narrow leaves on either side. It was
biting cold.
``You are a little too early,'' said the wind and
the weather; but every sunbeam sang: ``Welcome,''
and the flower raised its head from the
snow and unfolded itself--pure and white, and
decked with green stripes.
It was weather to freeze it to pieces,--such
a delicate little flower,--but it was stronger than
any one knew.
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