The Snail and the Rose Tree

It's me, Birdie, the conductor of the story train.

I'm the one that wears a green baseball cap, with a little white birdie on the front

and my favorite overalls.

All aboard the story train, find a comfy seat.

We're about to leave the station and you know what that means.

We're going someplace new.

One whistle, we're on our way.

I wonder where story train will lead us this time.

We're entering the rainbow tunnel, hold on everyone, it's off to far, far away.

This is so exciting, just on the other side of the short rainbow tunnel lies our destination.

That was quick.

We're already at the end of the tunnel.

Oh, I know this place, we're in a garden.

It's a lovely garden with a very special, very small and very slow moving inhabitant.

Today's story is about being a giver.

It's called the snail and the rose tree.

Around the lovely garden ran a hedge of hazel bushes.

Beyond the hedge were fields and meadows with cows and sheep,

but in the middle of the garden stood a magnificent rose tree, all in bloom,

under which sat a small snail, whose shell contained something very precious.

That is, himself.

Only wait till my time comes, the snail said, oh, I may be little, but I will do big things.

I will do more than grow roses, bear nuts, or give milk like the hazel bush, the cows and the sheep.

Hmm, well, you are a dear friend and I expect you will achieve everything you say, said the rose tree.

But may I ask snail, when you think your great contributions to the garden will come to pass?

Hmm, I take my time, spath of snail.

You're always in such a hurry, rose tree, everyone around here is.

But not me, you'll see, you'll see.

The following year, the snail lay in almost the same spot, in the sunshine under the rose tree,

which was again budding and bearing roses as fresh and beautiful as ever.

The snail crept half out of his shell, stretched out his horns and drew them in again.

Hmm, everything is just as it was last year, the frustrated snail spat.

There's been no progress at all.

The rose tree sticks to its roses and gets no further.

Hmm, I'll still be making the very biggest contributions to this garden, no doubt.

Just you all wait and see.

And with that, the snail retreated full of disappointment and anger back into his shell.

The summer and the autumn past, the rose tree bore more roses and buds till the snow fell

and the weather became raw and wet.

Then at last it bent down its head and the snail crept into the ground.

A new year began, the roses made their appearance and the snail made his too.

Ah, I am just the same health for frustrating whale the snail.

And then in his anger he turned and spat jealously to his friend.

But you are an old rose tree now.

Your time has likely come to perish after this year, for you have given the world all that

you had in your rose tree.

Oh dear, my friend, maybe you should have thought more about how you work on the inside

to see if you could produce something else.

I just don't know, but now I fear very much that you will soon be nothing but a stick.

At least I will still be the same snail again next year, as I always am, huh?

You frighten me, said the rose tree to the snail.

I've never thought of things like this before.

You've truly never wondered why you bloomed, how your blooming comes about.

Why just in that way and no other, the snail pushed his friend?

No, said the rose tree.

I bloom in gladness because I cannot do otherwise.

The sun shone and warmed me and the air refreshed me.

I drank the clear dew and the invigorating rain.

I breathed and I lived.

Out of the earth there arose a power within me.

Whilst from above I also received strength.

I felt an ever renewed and ever increasing happiness,

and therefore I was obliged to go on blooming.

That has been my life.

I could not do otherwise.

Well, you have let a very easy life remarked the snail spitefully.

Certainly, everything was given to me, said the rose tree thoughtfully.

But still more was given to you, snail.

What?

You must be joking, said the snail.

But the rose tree continued on, saying,

but snail, yours is one of those deep thinking natures.

You have one of those highly gifted minds,

that astonishes the world even if you are very small.

But I have not the slightest intention of astonishing the world anymore, said the snail.

Ah, the world is nothing to me.

What have I got to do with the world?

I have enough to do with myself and enough in myself.

But must we not all hear on earth give up our best parts to others,

and offer as much as lies in our powers at the rose tree?

How it is true I have only given roses.

But you snail, you who have so many thoughts.

What have you given to the world?

What will you give it?

What have I given?

What am I going to give?

You know what rose tree?

My whole life I've poked out of my shell,

believing that I would make a big difference to this garden,

and I never have done.

I'm stuck in my shell.

What role could I possibly play to improve things around here when I'm so small?

No.

I spit at the world.

It's good for nothing and does not concern me anymore.

For my part, you may go on bearing roses.

You cannot do anything else after all.

But the hazel bush bear nuts and the cows and sheep give milk.

They have each their public.

I'll just stick to myself.

I retire within myself and there I stop.

The world is nothing to me.

With this the snail withdrew into his house and blocked up the entrance to his shell.

Oh dear, that's very sad, so the rose tree.

Oh, I am disappointed in my snail friend.

His attitude has changed so much over the years.

I cannot creep into myself even on sad days like today that I might wish to do so.

I have to go on bearing roses.

Then they dropped their leaves which were blown away by the wind.

And do you know what?

Once I saw how one of my roses found a place in the hands of a young beautiful girl,

and how another was kissed by the lips of a child who was so joyful and full of life.

That did meet good.

It was a real blessing.

Those are my recollections, my life, my contribution.

And so fueled by the fulfillment of being a contributor to the garden and the world,

the rose tree went on with its purpose, blooming in innocence,

while the snail lay idling in his house, doing nothing for the world was nothing to him.

Years passed by.

The snail who had given up on giving back shriveled up and died,

but his small body turned into earth and helped provide nourishment for his friend, the rose tree,

who continued to bloom every year and spread enough joy for the both of them.

For, after all, every one of us big and small is something to the world.

It's time for us to head back to Flugerville.

Here comes the rainbow tunnel.

Come back and see me again.

You never know where story train will take us.

And if you like stories, search for go-kid-go-where-ever-you-listen-and-you-ll-find-lots-of-great-adventures.

See you next time.