that were tired and sad, and this brought new strength to her heart.
She became constantly more sick and more weak; her arms hung down feebly, her blossoms dropped their petals, her leaves became wrinkled and yellow. The man who tended her watched her sadly and asked, "What is wrong, my poor Rose-bush?" and he tried every remedy he knew of to help her. But all in vain. One morning, instead of a handsome, blooming Rose-bush, be found a miserable, withered, dead bush.
That could not remain there, the withered branches and flowers spoiled the handsome garden. The gracious lady commanded that the Rose-bush be thrown out. As the man dug her up, the Rose-bush gathered her remaining strength and whispered beseechingly, "Take me home! Please, please take me home!"
The man fulfilled her wish. He planted the Rose-bush in a flower pot and took her to the poor, small room where he lived. His sick wife sat up in bed and said, "Ah, the poor Rose-bush, she is as sick as I am, but you will nurse us both back to health."
The withered leaves and twigs moaned, "Water! Water!" And the man understood them and brought in a jar of water. The Rose-bush drank. Oh! what delight this was! Eagerly her roots sucked up the water, the delicious moisture passing thru all her branches gave her new life. The next morning she could lift up her branches; the sick woman was as happy as a child and cried, "She will get well!"
And the Rose-bush really got well. In a short while she again became so beautiful that the poor little room was as fragrant as a garden. The pale cheeks of the woman became rosier every day, her strength was returning. "The Rose-bush has made me well," said she, and all the flowers on the Rose-bush glowed deep red with joy when she heard these words.
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