little flower;—it was quite thankful: and when the sun set, it folded its leaves, went to sleep, and dreamed the whole night of the Sun and the beautiful bird.
On the following morning, when the flower, fresh and joyful, again stretched out its white leaves, like little arms, into the bright sunshine and clear blue air, it recognized the voice of the bird; but what he sung was so melancholy! Yes, the poor lark had good reason to be sad: he had been taken prisoner, and was now sitting in a cage, close to an open window in the pleasure-house. He sang of the joy of being able to fly about in freedom, sang of the young green corn in the field, and of the beautiful journeyings which he used to make on his wings, high up in the free air. The poor bird was heavy of heart: there he sat a captive in a narrow cage.
The little Daisy would so gladly have helped him; but how to begin, yes, that was the difficulty. In sympathizing with the lark, it forgot entirely how beautiful was every thing around it, how warm the sun
