milk; they have each their public, I have mine within myself! I retire
within myself, and there I remain. The world is nothing to me!"

And thereupon the snail withdrew into her house and closed it.

"That is so sad," said the rose-tree, "with the best will, I cannot
creep in, I must ever spring out, spring forth in roses. The leaves
drop off and are blown away by the wind. Yet, I saw one of the roses
laid in the hymn-book of the mother of the family; one of my roses was
placed upon the breast of a charming young girl, and one was kissed
with joy by a child's mouth. This did me so much good, it was a real
blessing! That is my recollection, my life!"

And the rose-tree flowered in innocence, and the snail sat
indifferently in her house. The world was nothing to her.

And years passed away. The snail became earth to earth and the
rose-tree became earth to earth; the remembrances in the hymn-book
were also blown away--but new rose-trees bloomed in the garden, new
snails grew in the garden; they crept in their houses and spat.--The
world is nothing to them.

Shall we read the story of the past again? It will not be different.

* * * * *

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