The Autobiography of a Rose Bush
I was planted in the garden of a small but pretty house, set a little apart from the road and therefore, comparatively quiet. From her bedroom, a lovely little girl could see me all day and draw solace from the sight. It was only much later that I learnt she was very ill and would not be with us for long. Now, with the wisdom of experience, I know that I was a constant source of joy to her till the day she died.
When the gardener first. pruned me I resented it very much but later learnt from his conversation with the mistress of the house that this was necessary for producing fine flowers. I was given rich manure and no effort was spared to make me bloom. When a blight came over me, the gardener tended me lovingly and treated me with chemicals till I became healthy once again. I then began to sprout forth the most splendid red roses that you ever saw. The colour and texture of my flowers was brilliant and they were greatly admired by visitors.
The little girl who considered me her very own would stare at me for hours together and watch eagerly for the first buds to bloom. Then she would follow the life of each flower—the slow opening of the petals, their blooming into full-grown roses, standing there proud and glorious, and then the gradual dissolution and decay as each petal fell slowly to the ground.
I was in full bloom the day the little girl passed away. I gladly offered my flowers to the gardener who plucked and put them in a basket. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he took apart each petal and when these were strewn on the tiny coffin, I was proud that they belonged to me, and in my own humble way I had done something good for somebody.
