when it will take place?"

"I shall take my time," said the snail, "you are in too great a hurry,
and when this is the case, how can one's expectations be fulfilled?"

The next year the snail lay in about the same spot under the
rose-tree, which put forth buds and developed roses, ever fresh, ever
new. The snail half crept forth, stretched out its feelers and drew
itself in again.

"Everything looks as it did a year ago! No progress has been made; the
rose-tree still bears roses; it does not get along any farther!"

The summer faded away, the autumn passed, the rose-tree constantly
bore flowers and buds, until the snow fell, and the weather was raw
and damp. The rose-tree bent itself towards the earth, the snail crept
in the earth.

A new year commenced; the roses came out, and the snail came out.

"Now you are an old rose bush," said the snail, "you will soon die
away. You have given the world everything that you had in you; whether
that be much or little is a question, upon which I have not time to
reflect. But it is quite evident, that you have not done the slightest
thing towards your inward developement; otherwise I suppose that
something different would have sprung from you. Can you answer this?
You will soon be nothing but a stick! Can you understand what I say?"

"You startle me," said the rose-tree, "I have never thought upon
that!"