But oh, dear, dear me! What do
you think has happened? Such a sad thing! All the beautiful
roses, that smelled so sweetly, and had so many lovely blushes,
are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see
this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been
the matter with them?"
"Pooh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said
Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the
change which so greatly afflicted her. "Sit down, and eat your
bread and milk. You will find it easy enough to exchange a golden
rose like that (which will last hundreds of years), for an
ordinary one which would wither in a day."
"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing
it contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals
prick my nose!"
The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her
grief for blighted roses that she did not even notice the
wonderful change in her china bowl. Perhaps this was all the
better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking
at the queer figures and strange trees and houses that were
painted on the outside of the bowl; and those ornaments were now
entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.
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