And this is how it happened, only you must remember that it was a very, very long time ago. In those old days the sun had not long sent his beams to earth, and it was only after they came there that the things upon the earth began to live. There had been no life at all before, it had all been dark and cold; it was only when the sun's beams began to shine upon the cold, dark earth, that they warmed it into life and love. Now as first one beautiful thing and then another began to live upon the earth, the sunbeams admired them all very much, but they did not envy them, for there was nothing there _quite_ so beautiful as a sunbeam. But one day, as they were dancing upon the waters of the sea, they heard the fishes saying to each other: "How beautiful are the sunbeams! Is there anything so beautiful as they? Our scales flash out brightly, but compared to them they are dull, even on the sunniest day. We should envy them, were they alive like us, but of course, as it is, it is different." "Are we not alive?" said the sunbeams, and they felt sad and did not dance on the waves any more that day. Then, another day, they were dancing on the leaves, and falling through them on to the shady ground underneath, chequering it with gold. "How glorious are the sunbeams!" said the leaves to each other, "more glorious even than the birds or the butterflies that perch amongst us. Would that we were as beautiful!" "Do you envy them?" said a butterfly, who had overheard and felt annoyed; "they have neither sense nor breath, are neither born nor die. Envy us, if you will, who have all these advantages, and are so beautiful as well--much more so than yourselves--but do not, however plain you may be, envy what is not alive." "Are we not alive?" said the sunbeams, and they were discontented and the clouds hid them, so that neither the trees nor the birds and butterflies within them seemed to be alive any more. And, again, the sunbeams were shining through a small window, where, in a wretched garret, on a still more wretched bed, lay a man who had care and sorrow--yes, and worse even than those--in his heart. "Would that I were dead!" he cried, as he clasped his hands on his forehead. "Ah, how I envy the sunbeams! But no, I will not envy _them_, for _they_ are not alive, they are inanimate merely." "Are we not alive?" said the sunbeams; "and does nobody envy us on that account?" And the wretched room that had seemed quite cheerful whilst they were there, became dark and dismal again, as they withdrew.