Two little weeds grew on a bank by the roadside.

All summer they had been drinking the dew and sunshine, and had been very happy.

But now autumn had come, with gray skies and winds that nipped and pinched them.

“We shall die soon,” said one little weed.

“I should like to do something pleasant before I die, just to show what a happy time I have had. I think I will turn red, and then people will see how I feel.”

“You will be very foolish to waste your strength in any such nonsense!” said the other little weed. “I shall live as long as I can, and hug the brown bank here.”

So the first little weed turned bright scarlet, and was so pretty that every one looked at it.

By and by there came down the road a most beautiful maiden.

When she saw the scarlet leaves she picked them and put them in her hair.

This made the little weed so happy that he died for pure joy.

The second little weed lived on, and turned slowly brown, like the bank.

“He was so foolish!” he said, speaking of the weed that turned scarlet. “He put all his strength into turning red, and so he died.”

“I was proud of him,” said the brown bank. “He did what he could, and people loved him.”

“Yes, but I am alive, and stay with you!” said the weed.

“Much I care!” said the bank.

—Laura E. Richards.