Rosa Damascena would have given all
her brilliant carnation hues to be pale and yellow like the
Princesse Adelaide, or delicately colorless like Her Grace of
Devoniensis.
She tried all she could to lose her own warm blushes, and prayed
that bees might sting her and so change her hues; but the bees
were of low taste, and kept their pearl-powder and rouge and other
pigments for the use of common flowers, like the evening primrose
or the butter-cup and borage, and never came near to do her any
good in arts of toilet.
One day the gardener approached and stood and looked at her: then
all at once she felt a sharp stab in her from his knife, and a
vivid pain ran downward through her stem.
She did not know it, but gardeners and gods "this way grant
prayer."
"Has not something happened to me?" she asked of the little
Banksiae; for she felt very odd all over her; and when you are
unwell you cannot be very haughty.
The saucy Banksiae laughed, running over their wires that they
cling to like little children.
"You have got your wish," they said. "You are going to be a great
lady; they have made you into a Rosa Indica!"
A tea rose! Was it possible?
Was she going to belong at last to that grand and graceful order,
which she had envied so long and vainly from afar?
Was she, indeed, no more mere simple Rosa Damascena? She felt so
happy she could hardly breathe.
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