"I heard the south wind tell the rose-bush that she would die," exclaimed
the vine, "and we do not understand what it is. Can you tell us what it is
to die?"

The old oak-tree smiled sadly.

"I do not call it death," said the old oak-tree; "I call it sleep,--a
long, restful, refreshing sleep."

"How does it feel?" inquired the daisy, looking very full of astonishment
and anxiety.

"You must know," said the old oak-tree, "that after many, many days we all
have had such merry times and have bloomed so long and drunk so heartily
of the dew and sunshine and eaten so much of the goodness of the earth
that we feel very weary and we long for repose. Then a great wind comes
out of the north, and we shiver in its icy blast. The sunshine goes away,
and there is no dew for us nor any nourishment in the earth, and we are
glad to go to sleep."

"Mercy on me!" cried the vine, "I shall not like that at all! What, leave
this smiling meadow and all the pleasant grass and singing bees and
frolicsome butterflies? No, old oak-tree, I would never go to sleep; I
much prefer sporting with the winds and playing with my little friends,
the daisy and the violet."

"And I," said the violet, "I think it would be dreadful to go to sleep.
What if we never should wake up again!"