The Rose-bush did not know where she was born and where she spent her early days—it is a well known fact that flowers have a bad memory, but to make up for that they can see into the future. When she first became conscious of herself, she stood in the middle of a magnificent green lawn. To one side of her she saw a great white stone house, that gleamed thru the branches of linden trees, to the other side stood a high trellised gate thru which she could see the street.
A thin tall man carefully tended the Rose-bush; he brought manure, bound the drooping twigs of the Rose-bush together with bark, brought water for the thirsty roots of the Rose-bush to drink. The Rose-bush was grateful to the man, and as the buds she was covered with opened into dainty red roses, she said to her friend, "You have taken care of me, it is because of you that I have become so beautiful. Take some of my loveliest blossoms in return."
The man shook his head. "You mean well, dear Rose-bush, and I would gladly take some of your beautiful blossoms for my sick wife. But I dare not do it. You don't belong to me."
"I don't belong to you!" exclaimed the Rose-bush. "Don't I belong to the person who has taken care of me and troubled himself about me? Then to whom do I belong?"
The man pointed with his hand to the gleaming white house among the trees and replied, "To the gracious lady who lives there."
