quite perfect, and no knife touched them; and though to be sure
she was still very scantily clothed so far as foliage went, yet
she was all the more fashionable for that, so what did it matter?

One day, when her beauty was at its fullest perfection, she heard
all the flowers about her bending and whispering with rustling and
murmuring, saying, "Who will be chosen? who will be chosen?"

Chosen for what? They did not talk much to her, because she was
but a newcomer and a parvenue, but she gathered from them in a
little time that there was to be a ball for a marriage festivity
at the house to which the greenhouse was attached. Each flower
wondered if it would be chosen to go to it. The azaleas knew they
would go, because they were in their pink or rose ball-dresses all
ready; but no one else was sure. The rose tree grew quite sick and
faint with hope and fear. Unless she went, she felt that life was
not worth the living. She had no idea what a ball might be, but
she knew that it was another form of greatness, when she was all
ready, too, and so beautiful!

The gardener came and sauntered down the glass house, glancing
from one to another. The hearts of all beat high. The azaleas only
never changed color: they were quite sure of themselves. Who could
do without them in February?

"Oh, take me! take me! take me!" prayed the rose tree, in her
foolish, longing, arrogant heart.

Her wish was given her. The lord of their fates smiled when he
came to where she stood.