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“Look at me, good angel,” cried the honeysuckle; “see how adventuresome I am. At the top of this trellis dwells a ladybird, and in her cozy nest are three daughters, the youngest of whom I go to woo. I carry sweetmeats with me to tempt the pretty dear; do you think she will love me?”

The angel laughed at the honeysuckle’s quaint conceit, but made no reply, for yonder he saw a purple aster he fain would question.

“Are you then so busy,” asked the angel, “that you turn your head away from every other thing and look always into the sky?”

“Do not interrupt me,” murmured the purple aster. “I love the great luminous sun, and whither he rolls in the blazing heavens I turn my face in awe and veneration. I would be the bride of the sun, but he only smiles down upon my devotion and beauty!”

So the angel wandered among the flowers all the day long and talked with them. And toward evening he came to a little grave which was freshly made.

“Do not tread upon us,” said the violets. “Let us cluster here over this sacred mound and sing our lullabies.”

“To whom do you sing, little flowers?” asked the angel.

“We sing to the child that lies sleeping beneath us,” replied the violets. “All through the seasons, even under the snows of winter, we nestle close to this mound and sing to the sleeping child. None but he hears us, and his soul is lulled by our gentle music.”

“But do you not often long for other occupation, for loftier service?” inquired the angel.

“Nay,” said the violets, “we are content, for we love to sing to the little, sleeping child.”

The angel was touched by the sweet humility of these modest flowers. He wept, and his tears fell upon the grave, and the flowers drank up the angel tears and sang more sweetly than before, but so softly that only the sleeping child heard them.

And when the angel flew back to heaven, he cherished a violet in his bosom.