The suggestion struck the others dumb with terror,--all but the old
oak-tree.

"Have no fear of that," said the old oak-tree, "for you are sure to awaken
again, and when you have awakened the new life will be sweeter and happier
than the old."

"What nonsense!" cried the thistle.

"You children shouldn't believe a word of it. When you go to sleep you
die, and when you die there's the last of you!"

The old oak-tree reproved the thistle; but the thistle maintained his
abominable heresy so stoutly that the little vine and the daisy and the
violet were quite at a loss to know which of the two to believe,--the old
oak-tree or the thistle.

The child heard it all and was sorely puzzled. What was this death, this
mysterious sleep? Would it come upon him, the child? And after he had
slept awhile would he awaken? His grandsire would not tell him of these
things; perhaps his grandsire did not know.

It was a long, long summer, full of sunshine and bird-music, and the
meadow was like a garden, and the old oak-tree looked down upon the grass
and flowers and saw that no evil befell them. A long, long play-day it was
to the little vine, the daisy, and the violet. The crickets and the
grasshoppers and the bumblebees joined in the sport, and romped and made
music till it seemed like an endless carnival. Only every now and then the
vine and her little flower friends talked with the old oak-tree about that
strange sleep and the promised awakening, and the thistle scoffed at the