cried Gerda; and she ran out intothe garden, and examined all the beds, and searched and searched.There was not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept, and hertears fell just on the place where one of the rose-trees had sunkdown. The warm tears moistened the earth, and the rose-tree sproutedup at once, as blooming as when it had sunk; and Gerda embraced it andkissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful roses at home, and,with them, of little Kay.
  "Oh, how I have been detained!" said the little maiden, "Iwanted to seek for little Kay. Do you know where he is?" she asked theroses; "do you think he is dead?"
  And the roses answered, "No, he is not dead. We have been in theground where all the dead lie; but Kay is not there."
  "Thank you," said little Gerda, and then she went to the otherflowers, and looked into their little cups, and asked, "Do you knowwhere little Kay is?" But each flower, as it stood in the sunshine,dreamed only of its own little fairy tale of history. Not one knewanything of Kay. Gerda heard many stories from the flowers, as sheasked them one after another about him.
  And what, said the tiger-lily? "Hark, do you hear the drum? -'turn, turn,'- there are only two notes, always, 'turn, turn.'Listen to the women's song of mourning! Hear the cry of the priest! Inher long red robe stands the Hindoo widow by the funeral pile. Theflames rise around her as she places herself on the dead body of herhusband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking of the living one in thatcircle; of him, her son, who lighted those flames. Those shiningeyes trouble her heart more painfully than the flames which willsoon consume her body to ashes. Can the fire of the heart beextinguished in the flames of the funeral pile?"
  "I don't understand that at all," said little Gerda.
  "That is my story," said the tiger-lily.
  What, says the convolvulus? "Near yonder narrow road stands an oldknight's castle; thick ivy creeps over the old ruined walls, leaf overleaf, even to the balcony, in which stands a beautiful maiden. Shebends over the balustrades, and looks up the road. No rose on its stemis fresher than she; no apple-blossom, wafted by the wind, floats morelightly than she moves. Her rich silk rustles as she bends over andexclaims, 'Will he not come?'
  "Is it Kay you mean?" asked Gerda.
  "I am only speaking of a story of my dream," replied the flower.
  What, said the little snow-drop? "Between two trees a rope ishanging; there is a piece of board upon it; it is a swing. Twopretty little girls, in dresses white as snow, and with long greenribbons fluttering from their hats, are sitting upon it swinging.Their brother who is taller than they are, stands in the swing; he hasone arm round the rope, to steady himself; in one hand he holds alittle bowl, and in the other a clay pipe; he is blowing bubbles. Asthe swing goes on, the bubbles fly upward, reflecting the mostbeautiful varying colors. The last still hangs from the bowl of thepipe, and sways in the wind. On goes the swing; and then a littleblack dog comes running up. He is almost as light as the bubble, andhe raises himself on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into theswing; but it does not stop, and the dog falls; then he barks and getsangry. The children stoop towards him, and the bubble bursts. Aswinging plank, a light sparkling foam picture,- that is my story."
  "It may be all very pretty what you are telling me," said littleGerda, "but you speak so mournfully, and you do not mention little Kayat all."
  What do the hyacinths say?