Chamomile story for children by Hans Christian Andersen. Topic: “The bright and wonderful world of nobility. Fairy tale G.Kh. Andersen "Chamomile". Chamomile. Hans Christian Andersen

Here, listen!

Outside the city, near the road, there was a dacha. You must have seen her? In front of her is a small garden, surrounded by a painted wooden lattice.

Not far from the dacha, by the very ditch, a chamomile grew in the soft green grass. The sun's rays warmed and caressed her along with the luxurious flowers that bloomed in the garden in front of the cottage, and our chamomile grew by leaps and bounds. One fine morning, it blossomed completely - yellow, round like the sun, its heart was surrounded by the radiance of dazzling white small rays-petals. Chamomile did not care at all that she was such a poor, unpretentious flower that no one sees or notices in the thick grass; no, she was pleased with everything, greedily reached for the sun, admired it and listened to the lark singing somewhere high, high in the sky.

Chamomile was so cheerful and happy, as if today was Sunday, but in fact it was only Monday; all the children sat quietly on the school benches and learned from their mentors; our daisy also sat quietly on its stalk and learned from the clear sun and from all surrounding nature I learned to know the goodness of God. Chamomile listened to the singing of the lark, and it seemed to her that in his loud, sonorous songs, exactly what was hidden in her heart sounded; therefore the chamomile looked at the happy fluttering songbird with some special reverence, but did not envy her in the least and did not grieve that she herself could neither fly nor sing. “I see and hear everything!” she thought. “The sun caresses me, the breeze kisses me! How happy I am!”

In the garden, many lush, proud flowers bloomed, and the less fragrant they were, the more important they were. Peonies puffed out their cheeks - they all wanted to become more roses; Is it a matter of size? There was no one more colorful, more elegant than tulips, they knew this very well and tried to keep as straight as possible in order to be more conspicuous. None of the proud flowers noticed a small daisy that grew somewhere near the ditch. But the chamomile often looked at them and thought, "How elegant, beautiful they are! A lovely songbird will certainly fly to visit them! Thank God that I grow up so close - I will see everything, I will admire enough!" Suddenly, "queer-queer-wit!" was heard, and the lark descended ... not into the garden to peonies and tulips, but straight into the grass, to a modest chamomile! Chamomile was completely confused with joy and simply did not know what to think, how to be!

The bird jumped around the chamomile and sang. "Oh, what a glorious soft grass! What a pretty little flower in a silver dress, with a golden heart!"

The yellow heart of the chamomile really shone like gold, and the dazzling white petals shone with silver.

Chamomile was so happy, so glad that it was impossible to say. The bird kissed her, sang a song to her, and again flew up to the blue sky. A good quarter of an hour passed before the camomile came to its senses from such happiness. She looked joyfully and shyly at the lush flowers - after all, they saw what happiness fell to her lot, who should appreciate it if not them! But the tulips stretched out, puffed up and blushed with annoyance, and the peonies were just ready to burst! It’s good that they didn’t know how to speak - a chamomile would have gotten from them. "The poor thing immediately realized that they were not in a good mood, and was very upset.

At this time, a girl appeared in the garden with a sharp, shiny knife in her hands. She walked right up to the tulips and began to cut them one by one. Chamomile gasped. "What a horror! Now they're finished!" Having cut the flowers, the girl left, and the chamomile was glad that she grew in thick grass, where no one saw or noticed her. The sun set, she folded the petals and fell asleep, but in her dream she saw a cute bird and a red sun.

In the morning, the flower spread its petals again and extended them, like a child of a hand, to the bright sun. At that very moment the voice of a lark was heard; the bird sang, but how sad! The poor thing had fallen into a trap and was now sitting in a cage hanging by the open window. The lark sang about the expanse of the sky, about the fresh green of the fields, about how good and free it was to fly in freedom! It was hard, hard on the poor bird's heart - she was in captivity!

Chamomile wholeheartedly wanted to help the captive, but how? And the chamomile forgot to think about how good it was around, how nicely the sun warmed, how its silver petals shone; she was tormented by the thought that she could do nothing to help the poor bird.

Suddenly two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had in his hands a knife as large and sharp as the one with which the girl cut the tulips. The boys went straight to the daisy, which could not understand what they needed here.

Here we can cut a nice piece of turf for our lark! - said one of the boys, and, thrusting the knife deep into the ground, he began to cut a square piece of turf; the chamomile found itself just in the middle of it.

Let's pick a flower! - said the other boy, and the daisy trembled with fear: if it was plucked, it would die, and it so wanted to live! Now she could get to the poor prisoner!

No, better stay! said the first of the boys. - So beautiful!

And the chamomile got into the cage to the lark. The poor thing complained loudly about his captivity, tossed about and fought against the iron bars of the cage. But the poor chamomile could not speak and could not console him with a word. And how she wanted to! So the whole morning passed.

There's no water here! complained the lark. - They forgot to give me a drink, they left and did not leave me a sip of water! My throat is completely dry! I'm on fire and I'm shivering! It's so stuffy here! Ah, I will die, I will not see any more red sun, or fresh greenery, or the whole of God's world!

In order to refresh himself a little, the lark stuck his beak deep into the fresh, cool turf, saw a chamomile, nodded his head at her, kissed her and said:

And you will wither here, poor flower! You and this piece of green turf - that's what they gave me in return for the whole world! Each blade of grass should now be a green tree for me, each of your petals a fragrant flower. Alas! You only remind me what I've lost!

"Oh, how can I comfort him!" - thought the chamomile, but could not move a leaf, and only more and more fragrant. The lark noticed this and did not touch the flower, although he plucked all the grass from thirst.

So the evening came, and no one brought water to the poor bird. Then she spread her short wings, fluttered them convulsively, and squeaked plaintively several more times:

Drink! Drink!

Then her head tilted to one side and her heart burst from anguish and anguish.

The chamomile, too, could no longer roll up its petals and fall asleep, as it had the day before: it was quite ill and stood with its head hung sadly.

Only the next morning the boys came and, seeing the dead lark, wept bitterly, bitterly, then they dug a grave for him and decorated it all with flowers, and put the lark himself in a beautiful red box - they wanted to bury him like a king! Poor bird! While she lived and sang, they forgot about her, left her to die of thirst in a cage, and now they gave her a magnificent funeral and shed bitter tears over her grave!

The chamomile turf was thrown out onto the dusty road; no one thought of the one who, after all, loved the poor bird most of all and wished to console her with all her heart.

Hans Christian Andersen

Here, listen!

Outside the city, near the road, there was a dacha. You must have seen her? In front of her is a small garden, surrounded by a painted wooden lattice.

Not far from the dacha, by the very ditch, a chamomile grew in the soft green grass. The sun's rays warmed and caressed her along with the luxurious flowers that bloomed in the garden in front of the cottage, and our chamomile grew by leaps and bounds. One fine morning, it blossomed completely - yellow, round like the sun, its heart was surrounded by the radiance of dazzling white small rays-petals. Chamomile did not care at all that she was such a poor, unpretentious flower that no one sees or notices in the thick grass; no, she was pleased with everything, greedily reached for the sun, admired it and listened to the lark singing somewhere high, high in the sky.

Chamomile was so cheerful and happy, as if today was Sunday, but in fact it was only Monday; all the children sat quietly on the school benches and learned from their mentors; our chamomile also sat quietly on its stalk and learned from the clear sun and from all the surrounding nature, learned to know the goodness of God. Chamomile listened to the singing of the lark, and it seemed to her that in his loud, sonorous songs, exactly what was hidden in her heart sounded; therefore the chamomile looked at the happy fluttering songbird with some special reverence, but did not envy her in the least and did not grieve that she herself could neither fly nor sing. “I can see and hear everything! she thought. The sun caresses me, the breeze kisses me! How happy I am!

In the garden, many lush, proud flowers bloomed, and the less fragrant they were, the more important they were. Peonies puffed out their cheeks - they all wanted to become more roses; Is it a matter of size? There was no one more colorful, more elegant than tulips, they knew this very well and tried to keep as straight as possible in order to be more conspicuous. None of the proud flowers noticed a small daisy that grew somewhere near the ditch. But the chamomile often looked at them and thought, “How elegant, beautiful they are! A lovely songbird will certainly fly to visit them! Thank God that I grow up so close - I will see everything, I will admire enough! Suddenly there was a "queer-queer-wit!" Chamomile was completely confused with joy and simply did not know what to think, how to be!

The bird jumped around the chamomile and sang. “Ah, what a glorious soft weed! What a pretty little flower in a silver dress, with a golden heart!”

The yellow heart of the chamomile really shone like gold, and the dazzling white petals shone with silver.

Chamomile was so happy, so glad that it was impossible to say. The bird kissed her, sang a song to her, and again flew up to the blue sky. A good quarter of an hour passed before the camomile came to its senses from such happiness. She looked joyfully and shyly at the lush flowers - after all, they saw what happiness fell to her lot, who should appreciate it if not them! But the tulips stretched out, puffed up and blushed with annoyance, and the peonies were just ready to burst! It’s good that they didn’t know how to speak - a chamomile would have gotten from them. "The poor thing immediately realized that they were not in a good mood, and was very upset.

At this time, a girl appeared in the garden with a sharp, shiny knife in her hands. She walked right up to the tulips and began to cut them one by one. Chamomile gasped. "Horrible! Now they're finished!" Having cut the flowers, the girl left, and the chamomile was glad that she grew in thick grass, where no one saw or noticed her. The sun set, she folded the petals and fell asleep, but in her dream she saw a cute bird and a red sun.

In the morning, the flower spread its petals again and extended them, like a child of a hand, to the bright sun. At that very moment the voice of a lark was heard; the bird sang, but how sad! The poor thing had fallen into a trap and was now sitting in a cage hanging by the open window. The lark sang about the expanse of the sky, about the fresh green of the fields, about how good and free it was to fly in freedom! It was hard, hard on the poor bird's heart - she was in captivity!

Chamomile wholeheartedly wanted to help the captive, but how? And the chamomile forgot to think about how good it was around, how nicely the sun warmed, how its silver petals shone; she was tormented by the thought that she could do nothing to help the poor bird.

Suddenly two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had in his hands a knife as large and sharp as the one with which the girl cut the tulips. The boys went straight to the daisy, which could not understand what they needed here.

Here we can cut a nice piece of turf for our lark! - said one of the boys, and, thrusting the knife deep into the ground, he began to cut a square piece of turf; the chamomile found itself just in the middle of it.

Let's pick a flower! - said the other boy, and the daisy trembled with fear: if it was plucked, it would die, and it so wanted to live! Now she could get to the poor prisoner!

No, better stay! said the first of the boys. - So beautiful!

And the chamomile got into the cage to the lark. The poor thing complained loudly about his captivity, tossed about and fought against the iron bars of the cage. But the poor chamomile could not speak and could not console him with a word. And how she wanted to! So the whole morning passed.

There's no water here! complained the lark. - They forgot to give me a drink, they left and did not leave me a sip of water! My throat is completely dry! I'm on fire and I'm shivering! It's so stuffy here! Ah, I will die, I will not see any more red sun, or fresh greenery, or the whole of God's world!

In order to refresh himself a little, the lark stuck his beak deep into the fresh, cool turf, saw a chamomile, nodded his head at her, kissed her and said:

And you will wither here, poor flower! You and this piece of green turf - that's what they gave me in return for the whole world! Each blade of grass should now be a green tree for me, each of your petals a fragrant flower. Alas! You only remind me what I've lost!

“Oh, how can I console him!” - thought the chamomile, but could not move a leaf, and only more and more fragrant. The lark noticed this and did not touch the flower, although he plucked all the grass from thirst.

So the evening came, and no one brought water to the poor bird. Then she spread her short wings, fluttered them convulsively, and squeaked plaintively several more times:

Drink! Drink!

Then her head tilted to one side and her heart burst from anguish and anguish.

The chamomile, too, could no longer roll up its petals and fall asleep, as it had the day before: it was quite ill and stood with its head hung sadly.

Only the next morning the boys came and, seeing the dead lark, wept bitterly, bitterly, then dug a grave for him and decorated it all with flowers, and put the lark himself in a beautiful red box - they wanted to bury him like a king! Poor bird! While she lived and sang, they forgot about her, left her to die of thirst in a cage, and now they gave her a magnificent funeral and shed bitter tears over her grave!

The chamomile turf was thrown out onto the dusty road; no one thought of the one who, after all, loved the poor bird most of all and wished to console her with all her heart.

Here, listen!

Outside the city, near the road, there was a dacha. You must have seen her? In front of her is a small garden, surrounded by a painted wooden lattice.

Not far from the dacha, by the very ditch, a chamomile grew in the soft green grass. The sun's rays warmed and caressed her along with the luxurious flowers that bloomed in the garden in front of the cottage, and our chamomile grew by leaps and bounds. One fine morning, it blossomed completely - yellow, round like the sun, its heart was surrounded by the radiance of dazzling white small rays-petals. Chamomile did not care at all that she was such a poor, unpretentious flower that no one sees or notices in the thick grass; no, she was pleased with everything, greedily reached for the sun, admired it and listened to the lark singing somewhere high, high in the sky.

Chamomile was so cheerful and happy, as if today was Sunday, but in fact it was only Monday; all the children sat quietly on the school benches and learned from their mentors; our chamomile also sat quietly on its stalk and learned from the clear sun and from all the surrounding nature, learned to know the goodness of God. Chamomile listened to the singing of the lark, and it seemed to her that in his loud, sonorous songs, exactly what was hidden in her heart sounded; therefore the chamomile looked at the happy fluttering songbird with some special reverence, but did not envy her in the least and did not grieve that she herself could neither fly nor sing. “I can see and hear everything! she thought. - The sun caresses me, the breeze kisses! How happy I am!

In the garden, many lush, proud flowers bloomed, and the less fragrant they were, the more important they were. Peonies puffed out their cheeks - they all wanted to become more roses; Is it a matter of size? There was no one more colorful, more elegant than tulips, they knew this very well and tried to keep as straight as possible in order to be more conspicuous. None of the proud flowers noticed a small daisy that grew somewhere near the ditch. But the chamomile often looked at them and thought, “How elegant, beautiful they are! A lovely songbird will certainly fly to visit them! Thank God that I grow up so close - I will see everything, I will admire enough! Suddenly there was a "queer-queer-wit!" Chamomile was completely confused with joy and simply did not know what to think, how to be!

The bird jumped around the chamomile and sang. “Ah, what a glorious soft weed! What a pretty little flower in a silver dress, with a golden heart!”

The yellow heart of the chamomile really shone like gold, and the dazzling white petals shone with silver.

Chamomile was so happy, so glad that it was impossible to say. The bird kissed her, sang a song to her, and again flew up to the blue sky. A good quarter of an hour passed before the camomile came to its senses from such happiness. She looked joyfully and shyly at the lush flowers - after all, they saw what happiness fell to her lot, who should appreciate it if not them! But the tulips stretched out, puffed up and blushed with annoyance, and the peonies were just ready to burst! It’s good that they didn’t know how to speak - a chamomile would have gotten from them. The poor thing immediately realized that they were not in a good mood, and she was very upset.

At this time, a girl appeared in the garden with a sharp, shiny knife in her hands. She walked right up to the tulips and began to cut them one by one. Chamomile gasped. "Horrible! Now they're finished!" Having cut the flowers, the girl left, and the chamomile was glad that she grew in thick grass, where no one saw or noticed her. The sun set, she folded the petals and fell asleep, but in her dream she saw a cute bird and a red sun.

In the morning, the flower spread its petals again and extended them, like a child of a hand, to the bright sun. At that very moment the voice of a lark was heard; the bird sang, but how sad! The poor thing had fallen into a trap and was now sitting in a cage hanging by the open window. The lark sang about the expanse of the sky, about the fresh green of the fields, about how good and free it was to fly in freedom! It was hard, hard on the poor bird's heart - she was in captivity!

Chamomile wholeheartedly wanted to help the captive, but how? And the chamomile forgot to think about how good it was around, how nicely the sun warmed, how its silver petals shone; she was tormented by the thought that she could do nothing to help the poor bird.

Suddenly two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had in his hands a knife as large and sharp as the one with which the girl cut the tulips. The boys went straight to the daisy, which could not understand what they needed here.

Here we can cut a nice piece of turf for our lark! - said one of the boys, and, thrusting the knife deep into the ground, he began to cut a square piece of turf; the chamomile found itself just in the middle of it.

Let's pick a flower! - said the other boy, and the daisy trembled with fear: if it was plucked, it would die, and it so wanted to live! Now she could get to the poor prisoner!

No, better stay! said the first of the boys. - So beautiful!

And the chamomile got into the cage to the lark. The poor thing complained loudly about his captivity, tossed about and fought against the iron bars of the cage. But the poor chamomile could not speak and could not console him with a word. And how she wanted to! So the whole morning passed.

There's no water here! complained the lark. - They forgot to give me a drink, they left and did not leave me a sip of water! My throat is completely dry! I'm on fire and I'm shivering! It's so stuffy here! Ah, I will die, I will not see any more red sun, or fresh greenery, or the whole of God's world!

In order to refresh himself a little, the lark stuck his beak deep into the fresh, cool turf, saw a chamomile, nodded his head at her, kissed her and said:

And you will wither here, poor flower! You and this piece of green turf - that's what they gave me in return for the whole world! Each blade of grass should now be a green tree for me, each of your petals a fragrant flower. Alas! You only remind me what I've lost!

“Oh, how can I console him!” - thought the chamomile, but could not move a leaf, and only more and more fragrant. The lark noticed this and did not touch the flower, although he plucked all the grass from thirst.

So the evening came, and no one brought water to the poor bird. Then she spread her short wings, fluttered them convulsively, and squeaked plaintively several more times:

Drink! Drink!

Then her head tilted to one side and her heart burst from anguish and anguish.

The chamomile, too, could no longer roll up its petals and fall asleep, as it had the day before: it was quite ill and stood with its head hung sadly.

Only the next morning the boys came and, seeing the dead lark, wept bitterly, bitterly, then they dug a grave for him and decorated it all with flowers, and put the lark himself in a beautiful red box - they wanted to bury him like a king! Poor bird! While she lived and sang, they forgot about her, left her to die of thirst in a cage, and now they gave her a magnificent funeral and shed bitter tears over her grave!

The chamomile turf was thrown out onto the dusty road; no one thought of the one who, after all, loved the poor bird most of all and wished to console her with all her heart.

Chamomile. Hans Christian Andersen

Here, listen!

Outside the city, near the road, there was a dacha. You must have seen her? In front of her is a small garden, surrounded by a painted wooden lattice.

Not far from the dacha, by the very ditch, a chamomile grew in the soft green grass. The sun's rays warmed and caressed her along with the luxurious flowers that bloomed in the garden in front of the cottage, and our chamomile grew by leaps and bounds. One fine morning, it blossomed completely - yellow, round like the sun, its heart was surrounded by the radiance of dazzling white small rays-petals. Chamomile did not care at all that she was such a poor, unpretentious flower that no one sees or notices in the thick grass; no, she was pleased with everything, greedily reached for the sun, admired it and listened to the lark singing somewhere high, high in the sky.

Chamomile was so cheerful and happy, as if today was Sunday, but in fact it was only Monday; all the children sat quietly on the school benches and learned from their mentors; our chamomile also sat quietly on its stalk and learned from the clear sun and from all the surrounding nature, learned to know the goodness of God. Chamomile listened to the singing of the lark, and it seemed to her that in his loud, sonorous songs, exactly what was hidden in her heart sounded; therefore the chamomile looked at the happy fluttering songbird with some special reverence, but did not envy her in the least and did not grieve that she herself could neither fly nor sing. “I see and hear everything!” she thought. The sun caresses me, the breeze kisses me! How happy I am!

In the garden, many lush, proud flowers bloomed, and the less fragrant they were, the more important they were. Peonies puffed out their cheeks - they all wanted to become more roses; Is it a matter of size? There was no one more colorful, more elegant than tulips, they knew this very well and tried to keep as straight as possible in order to be more conspicuous. None of the proud flowers noticed a small daisy that grew somewhere near the ditch. But the chamomile often looked at them and thought, "How elegant, beautiful they are! A lovely songbird will certainly fly to visit them! Thank God that I grow up so close - I will see everything, I will admire enough!" Suddenly, "queer-queer-wit!" was heard, and the lark descended ... not into the garden to peonies and tulips, but straight into the grass, to a modest chamomile! Chamomile was completely confused with joy and simply did not know what to think, how to be!

The bird jumped around the chamomile and sang. "Oh, what a glorious soft grass! What a pretty little flower in a silver dress, with a golden heart!"

The yellow heart of the chamomile really shone like gold, and the dazzling white petals shone with silver.

Chamomile was so happy, so glad that it was impossible to say. The bird kissed her, sang a song to her, and again flew up to the blue sky. A good quarter of an hour passed before the camomile came to its senses from such happiness. She looked joyfully and shyly at the lush flowers - after all, they saw what happiness fell to her lot, who should appreciate it if not them! But the tulips stretched out, puffed up and blushed with annoyance, and the peonies were just ready to burst! It’s good that they didn’t know how to speak - a chamomile would have gotten from them. "The poor thing immediately realized that they were not in a good mood, and was very upset.

At this time, a girl appeared in the garden with a sharp, shiny knife in her hands. She walked right up to the tulips and began to cut them one by one. Chamomile gasped. "What a horror! Now they're finished!" Having cut the flowers, the girl left, and the chamomile was glad that she grew in thick grass, where no one saw or noticed her. The sun set, she folded the petals and fell asleep, but in her dream she saw a cute bird and a red sun.

In the morning, the flower spread its petals again and extended them, like a child of a hand, to the bright sun. At that very moment the voice of a lark was heard; the bird sang, but how sad! The poor thing had fallen into a trap and was now sitting in a cage hanging by the open window. The lark sang about the expanse of the sky, about the fresh green of the fields, about how good and free it was to fly in freedom! It was hard, hard on the poor bird's heart - she was in captivity!

Chamomile wholeheartedly wanted to help the captive, but how? And the chamomile forgot to think about how good it was around, how nicely the sun warmed, how its silver petals shone; she was tormented by the thought that she could do nothing to help the poor bird.

Suddenly two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had in his hands a knife as large and sharp as the one with which the girl cut the tulips. The boys went straight to the daisy, which could not understand what they needed here.

Here we can cut a nice piece of turf for our lark! - said one of the boys, and, thrusting the knife deep into the ground, he began to cut a square piece of turf; the chamomile found itself just in the middle of it.

Let's pick a flower! - said the other boy, and the daisy trembled with fear: if it was plucked, it would die, and it so wanted to live! Now she could get to the poor prisoner!

No, better stay! said the first of the boys. - So beautiful!

And the chamomile got into the cage to the lark. The poor thing complained loudly about his captivity, tossed about and fought against the iron bars of the cage. But the poor chamomile could not speak and could not console him with a word. And how she wanted to! So the whole morning passed.

There's no water here! complained the lark. - They forgot to give me a drink, they left and did not leave me a sip of water! My throat is completely dry! I'm on fire and I'm shivering! It's so stuffy here! Ah, I will die, I will not see any more red sun, or fresh greenery, or the whole of God's world!

In order to refresh himself a little, the lark stuck his beak deep into the fresh, cool turf, saw a chamomile, nodded his head at her, kissed her and said:

And you will wither here, poor flower! You and this piece of green turf - that's what they gave me in return for the whole world! Each blade of grass should now be a green tree for me, each of your petals a fragrant flower. Alas! You only remind me what I've lost!

"Oh, how can I comfort him!" - thought the chamomile, but could not move a leaf, and only more and more fragrant. The lark noticed this and did not touch the flower, although he plucked all the grass from thirst.

So the evening came, and no one brought water to the poor bird. Then she spread her short wings, fluttered them convulsively, and squeaked plaintively several more times:

Drink! Drink!

Then her head tilted to one side and her heart burst from anguish and anguish.

The chamomile, too, could no longer roll up its petals and fall asleep, as it had the day before: it was quite ill and stood with its head hung sadly.

Only the next morning the boys came and, seeing the dead lark, wept bitterly, bitterly, then they dug a grave for him and decorated it all with flowers, and put the lark himself in a beautiful red box - they wanted to bury him like a king! Poor bird! While she lived and sang, they forgot about her, left her to die of thirst in a cage, and now they gave her a magnificent funeral and shed bitter tears over her grave!

The chamomile turf was thrown out onto the dusty road; no one thought of the one who, after all, loved the poor bird most of all and wished to console her with all her heart.

Once upon a time there was a field flower Chamomile, he was glad for every sunny day. Once they dug up Chamomile and put it in a cage with a lark. But they forgot to give the poor bird a drink, and no matter how sorry the lark flower was, he died of thirst.

Chamomile read

Here, listen!

Outside the city, near the road, there was a dacha. Are you sure you saw her? In front of her is a small garden, surrounded by a painted wooden lattice.

Not far from the dacha, by the very ditch, chamomile grew in soft green grass.

The sun's rays warmed and caressed her along with the luxurious flowers that bloomed in the garden in front of the cottage, and our chamomile grew by leaps and bounds. One fine morning, it blossomed completely - yellow, round, like the sun, its heart was surrounded by the radiance of dazzling white small rays-petals. Chamomile did not care at all that she was such a poor, unpretentious flower that no one sees or notices in the thick grass; no, she was pleased with everything, greedily reached for the sun, admired it and listened to the lark singing somewhere high, high in the sky.

Chamomile was so cheerful and happy, as if today was Sunday, but in fact it was only Monday; all the children sat quietly on the school benches and learned from their mentors; our daisy also sat quietly on its stalk and learned from the clear sun and from all the surrounding nature, learned to know the goodness of God. Chamomile listened to the lark's singing, and it seemed to her that in his loud, sonorous songs, exactly what was hidden in her heart sounded; therefore the chamomile looked at the happy fluttering songbird with some special reverence, but did not envy her in the least and did not grieve that she herself could neither fly nor sing. “I can see and hear everything! she thought. - The sun caresses me, the breeze kisses! How happy I am!

In the garden, many lush, proud flowers bloomed, and the less fragrant they were, the more important they were. Peonies puffed out their cheeks - they all wanted to become more roses; Is it a matter of size? There was no one more colorful, more elegant than tulips, they knew this very well and tried to keep as straight as possible in order to be more conspicuous. None of the proud flowers noticed a small daisy that grew somewhere near the ditch.

But the chamomile often looked at them and thought: “How elegant, beautiful they are! A lovely songbird will certainly fly to visit them! Thank God that I grow up so close - I will see everything, I will admire enough! Suddenly, “queer-queer-wit!” was heard, and the lark descended ... not into the garden to peonies and tulips, but straight into the grass, to a modest daisy! Chamomile was completely confused with joy and simply did not know what to think, how to be!

The bird jumped around the chamomile and sang: “Oh, what a nice soft grass! What a pretty little flower in a silver dress, with a golden heart!”

The yellow heart of the chamomile really shone like gold, and the dazzling white petals shone with silver.

Chamomile was so happy, so glad that it was impossible to say. The bird kissed her, sang a song to her, and again flew up to the blue sky. A good quarter of an hour passed before the camomile came to its senses from such happiness. She looked joyfully and shyly at the lush flowers - after all, they saw what happiness fell to her lot, who should appreciate it if not them! But the tulips stretched out, puffed up and blushed with annoyance, and the peonies were just ready to burst! It’s good that they didn’t know how to speak - a chamomile would have gotten from them! The poor thing knew at once that they were not in a good mood, and she was very upset.

At this time, a girl appeared in the garden with a sharp, shiny knife in her hands. She walked right up to the tulips and began to cut them one by one. Chamomile gasped. "Horrible! Now they're finished!" Having cut the flowers, the girl left, and the chamomile was glad that she grew in thick grass, where no one saw or noticed her. The sun set, she folded the petals and fell asleep, but even in her dream she saw a cute bird and a red sun.

In the morning, the flower spread its petals again and extended them, like a child of a hand, to the bright sun. At that very moment the voice of a lark was heard; the bird sang, but how sad! The poor thing had fallen into a trap and was now sitting in a cage hanging by the open window. The lark sang about the expanse of the sky, about the fresh green of the fields, about how good and free it was to fly in freedom! It was hard, hard on the poor bird's heart - she was in captivity!

Chamomile wholeheartedly wanted to help the captive, but how? And the chamomile forgot to think about how good it was around, how nicely the sun warmed, how its silver petals shone; she was tormented by the thought that she could do nothing to help the poor bird.

Suddenly two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had in his hands a knife as large and sharp as the one with which the girl cut the tulips. The boys went straight to the daisy, which could not understand what they needed here.

Here we can cut a nice piece of turf for our lark! - said one of the boys and, having deeply launched a knife into the ground, he began to cut a quadrangular piece of turf; the chamomile found itself just in the middle of it.

Let's pick a flower! - said the other boy, and the daisy trembled with fear: if it was plucked, it would die, and it so wanted to live! Now she could get to the poor prisoner!

No, better stay! said the first of the boys. - So beautiful!

And the chamomile got into the cage to the lark. The poor thing complained loudly about his captivity, tossed about and fought against the iron bars of the cage. But the poor chamomile could not speak and could not console him with a word. And how she wanted to! So the whole morning passed.

There's no water here! complained the lark. - They forgot to give me a drink, they left and did not leave me a sip of water! My throat is completely dry! I'm on fire and I'm shivering! It's so stuffy here! Ah, I will die, I will not see any more red sun, or fresh greenery, or the whole of God's world!

In order to get some refreshment, the lark stuck its beak deep into the fresh, cool turf, saw a daisy, nodded its head, kissed it and said:

And you will wither here, poor flower! You and this piece of green turf - that's what they gave me in return for the whole world! Each blade of grass should now be a green tree for me, each of your petals a fragrant flower. Alas! You only remind me what I've lost!

“Oh, how can I console him!” - thought the chamomile, but could not move a single leaf, and only more and more fragrant. The lark noticed this and did not touch the flower, although he plucked all the grass from thirst.

So the evening passed, and no one brought water to the poor bird. Then she spread her short wings, fluttered them convulsively, and squeaked plaintively a few more times:

Drink! Drink!

Then her head tilted to one side and her heart burst from anguish and anguish.

The chamomile, too, could no longer roll up its petals and fall asleep, as it had the day before: it was quite ill and stood with its head hung sadly.

Only the next morning the boys came and, seeing the dead lark, wept bitterly, bitterly, then dug a grave for him and decorated it all with flowers, and put the lark himself in a beautiful red box - they wanted to bury him like a king! Poor bird! While she lived and sang, they forgot about her, left her to die of thirst in a cage, and now they gave her a magnificent funeral and shed bitter tears over her grave!

The turf with chamomile was thrown out onto the dusty road; no one thought of the one who, after all, loved the poor bird most of all and wished to console her with all her heart.