In a lush garden where green leaves danced in the breeze, there was a patch known as the Seed Patch. As the sun rose over the horizon, vibrant colors peeked through the dew-covered leaves, and new seeds prepared for a day filled with adventure. Among them was a small seed named Sammy.
Sammy was a peculiar little seed. While the others buzzed with excitement about what they would become—rosey-red petals, sugary berries, and creamy-white blossoms—Sammy was different. He spoke up one day, “But what if I grow into something muddy or soft or even prickly?”
His friend Theodora Seed scoffed playfully, “There isn’t a seed yet that becomes muddy or soft.” But Sandy Seed buried herself snugly in the soil and cautioned, “It’s scary to grow. Anything may happen.”
Meanwhile, a busy bug paused nearby to listen. “Fear not to grow, young ones,” he cheered. “Why, why, I’m not sure my mother knew what I would become when she covered my egg. It looked all the world like a little boy’s hat but, see how fine a thing it has turned out to be.”
But the seeds all looked dubious. “Yes, she didn’t warn me what you would become,” said Theodora. “But, oh, the pale flower-bug over there” (pointing to a white butterfly), “has a lovely story about her changes. Let’s hear it.”
As if in answer, the butterfly gracefully flitted down and began, “I was once a fat, green caterpillar. It was all I could do to crawl around on my stomach.”
“Oh!” gasped the little girl flowers.
“It was not even polite to go down to table with the rest,” she added naïvely. “So I simply turned around to my flower friends and cried, ‘Lie you down; the visitors are coming!’ And then—I fell asleep.”
Instantly, there came a great shout from all the flower children at this wonderful idea.
In less than an hour, the surprised gardener, coming with water and hose, found in The Flower Bed what resembled nothing so much as an old-fashioned feather bed turned wrong side out.
“That’s the prettiest thing I ever saw!” he shouted.
Of course, Miss Buddidum done all she could to explain things to him but he was just as stupid as any old gardener some times are.
“Now you doze!” said the caterpillar. “Who knows but you may be surprised to-night?”
But the gardener only picked up the feather bed and staggered to the lawn with it so that all day it lay there, wild and disheveled.
Slowly, slowly evening came. The settin’ sun turned the world to gold and then sank from sight. The moon peeped out to say her happy good-night; and all the time the poor fish-wife down by the sea cried over her dying grandfather. So she cried until the fatigue of the long hours tipped her over and she fell asleep.
But when she woke up it was daylight in the heavens and in her thought-memory. So she hurried on her wooden shoes and took her fishing-net, and went down to the shore—and that was all the help her grandfather needed instead of the flaxen-haired fisherman.
And now all the other seeds hustled around Sammy scolding him to hurry and grow since the seeds that started after them were already wide awake to breakfast.
“Then I will grow,” he said somewhat proudly, “And won’t you see the surprise I’m going to give you?” and right then and there he began to grow. At once his friends turned paler than their white blossoms as well they might if they had just done wounding their seeds. But it was no use. Sammy would grow.
Up and up, ever higher under the warm sunshine, while all the seeds not planted within the least hour began to cry, “How well he is feeding,” and their respective flowers shrieked at his good fortune.
At last, after the greatest effort it took to struggle still high and high, up came A Flower.
“Yes,” exclaimed everyone, “He has grown; but maybe after all it isn’t anything particularly. We’ll see.”
“Now,” answered he, “I can surely tell if there is anything or not.”
The Flower raised its brother, small as he was, on one tender tiny stem and held it to each passer-by. “Tell me if there is anything more beautiful than this in the wide world,” questioned A Flower.
Meanwhile, Sammy the Seed was slowly swelling and swelling until he was so large the breeze which had so long followed him stopped to hear what was to happen.
Now, Bird was just hopping off to work. “No, no! No long stories. Tell us at the end of the day what happened.” He sang out to a Starling near him. But the Starling shrugged his wings and answered back. “Yes, yes, but we on the fruit trees have to know before.”
When sunset has gone his way the birds began to make new stories. The Doves always tell the story that was told to them, but the Sparrows generally set it to music.
The Nightingale sat high above the garden wringing her little throat with anger until at last at sunrise, she shut up her greedy mouth.
She had nothing to say about Sammy. Oh, dear! She had nothing to say but, “Let me die like flowers.”
“I have changed face this night but I hope to get over it,” whispered the Starling.
Poor little Theodora Seed had just the merest kind of an idea to what was happening because of The Flower Buds scampering off for newspapers to tell her.
“A rumour came running this minute to say that Sammy has changed into Sammy Billow, the rumpled Sweet Pea. Just think! Was there ever seen such an odd child? To think and wonder that he lived I’m sure.”
And from that day forth, how real were all the Flower children’s thoughts, for Sammy was now but a twiggy stem with light pretty blossoms for his head and then the huge green fruits afterward, all longing to become seeds again, but only that they might see how they were made over there in the store flowers—or every here and where.
Oh, dear; could he ever be anything more curious!