“No, it is not ended,” said the flax. “To-morrow the sun will shine or the rain fall. I feel that I am growing. I feel that I am in full blossom. I am the happiest of all creatures.”
Well, one day some people came, and took hold of the flax and pulled it up by the roots; this was painful; then it was laid in water as if they meant to drown it; and, after that, placed it near a fire as if it were to be roasted; all this was very shocking. “We cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “by feeling pain as well as good, we become wise.” And certainly there was plenty of evil in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it. At last it was put on the spinning wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the wheel so fast that the flax could not think. “Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain, “and I must be contented with the past;” and contented he was till he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen. All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one piece. “Well, this is quite wonderful; I could not have believed that I should be so fortunate. The fern really was not wrong with its song of
Basse lurre.’
But the song is not ended yet, I am sure; it is only just beginning. How wonderful is it that after all I have suffered, I am made something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world—so strong and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. Then, I had no attention, nor any water unless it rained; now, I am watched and taken care of. Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a shower-bath from the watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the clergyman’s wife noticed me and said I was the best piece of linen in the whole parish. I cannot be happier than I am now.”
After some time the linen was taken into the house, placed under the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles. This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into twelve garments of that kind which people do not like to name, and yet everybody should wear one. “See, now then,” said the flax; “I have become something of importance. This was the plan for me; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as everyone ought to be; it is the only way to be happy. I am now divided into twelve pieces, and yet we are all one and the same in the whole dozen. It is such a good fortune.”
Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other; “we would gladly have held together a little longer, but we must not expect what cannot be.” And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water, and made into a pulp, and dried, and they knew not what besides,
