In a sunny spring, a happy little garden came alive with blooming flowers, lifting their heads and swaying in the gentle sunbeams. They were all busy talking together, feeling quite happy, and sang,
“Oh, how happy we are in our blooming garden.”
Still, they looked up at the sun with a kind of anxious hope.
Then the Sun came smiling down upon them, and said, “Deary me! how very dry it is growing! Shall we have no rain?”
The poor Flowers looked sorrowfully at one another, while the Sun inquired again, “Will there be no rain in our happy garden? Would you not like a little?”
Then a light Summer Cloud sailed through the sky and cried out, “Look at me! I am nothing but rain, on a visit to our happy garden. I will look down upon you.’
“Indeed, I don’t want you,” said the yellow Crocus.
“But we want a little rain for our own sakes,” said the yellow Crocus; “and it will not do us any harm.”
The Crocuses and Bluebells began to cry as loud as they could, “We want it, we want it, dearest Summer Cloud. If you were our mother, you would give it us, for mothers are so kind.”
The little Cloud, touched at heart, stood still, and pondered. “Oh! if I confess it, I shall be quite crammed with rain. What am I to do? What am I to do?”
Then the Garden said, “If you give us rain, we shall give you Heather Honey to live upon.”
The Split Pea and the Jacinth said, “If you give us rain, we will give you Tea to live upon.”
The Sun said, “If you give us rain, I shall give you the wonderful Sleep of every night and every day.”
So the little Cloud gave us a nice drop of rain, and never has desired anything but Honey on which to live since. Every single Flower in the happy garden received a drop, and they all raised their heads and sang,
“Oh, how happy we are in our blooming garden.”
From that day till now, the Flowers of the Garden have always had rain when they wanted it. It is true, however, that the young folks of the Pea family went on crying out for more than it was quite safe for them to take, by which means they never grew as tall as they might have done. They constantly whisper Song to every Summer Cloud that passes over them:
“Please, dearest Cloud, let it rain in our garden.”
“Oh,” say the other Flowers, “not too much time, or the result will be a puddle to freeze.”