Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped, that pleasant weather.
A robin who had soared too high,
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.
For daisies grow so trig* and tall;
She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck
In just the daisies’ fashion.
And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color,
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.
“Dear robin,” said this sad young flower,
“Perhaps you’d not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me,
Some day, when you are flying?”
“You silly thing!” the robin said;
“I think you must be crazy!
I’d rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.
You’re nicer in your own bright gown,
The little children love you;
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.
Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We’d better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.
Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing.”
by Sarah Orne Jewett: as published in “St. Nicholas Magazine” (February 1876), page 247
* trig: stylish
Sarah Orne Jewett was born on 3 September 1849 in South Berwick, Maine, United States of America. She became a novelist, a short story writer, and a poet. Sarah Orne Jewett passed on at 59 years of age on 24 June 1909 in South Berwick, Maine, United States of America.