The grandsire bade the child think no more of these things; the flowers were foolish prattlers,--what right had they to put such notions into a child's head? But the child did not do his grandsire's bidding; he loved the flowers and the trees, and he went each day to hear them talk. It seems that the little vine down by the stone-wall had overheard the south wind say to the rosebush: "You are a proud, imperious beauty now, and will not listen to my suit; but wait till my boisterous brother comes from the North,--then you will droop and wither and die, all because you would not listen to me and fly with me to my home by the Southern sea." These words set the little vine to thinking; and when she had thought for a long time she spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called in the violet, and the three little ones had a very serious conference; but, having talked it all over, they came to the conclusion that it was as much of a mystery as ever. The old oak-tree saw them. "You little folks seem very much puzzled about something," said the old oak-tree. "I heard the south wind tell the rosebush 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!" 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.