Morning-glory still wanted to leave the big vine, and the next time the breeze came along it pushed up its head and the breeze took it off the big vine and bore it along with it far, far away. 

 But by and by the wind grew tired of carrying the little Glory, so it dropped it, and when the Morning-glory looked around it found it was in the midst of big tall trees and rocks and briers. 

 Vainly it tried to crawl along to a tree where it could twine itself around and climb, but it was too small, and then the rain came and made it cold and wet, and even the fickle wind did not come to it again. 

 Then the cold days came and the poor little Glory grew faded and had to crawl under the dead leaves for protection. 

 When the summer came again up came the little Glory, but it was a sad little flower. Now it longed to climb, but it was too small to do anything but lie on the ground. 

 After a while it grew near to a bush and put its weak little vine around it, hoping to get off the ground. 

 "What do you mean by trying to cling to me?" said the bush.  "I have all I can do to take care of myself." 

 So the poor little Morning-glory dropped back to the ground. By and by it grew long enough to reach a tree and slowly it climbed up the big trunk until it came to the branches. 

 "Now I shall be able to see the world," it thought.  "This tree is big and will shelter me, and I can climb to the very top." 

 As soon as the big tree saw what was happening it told the little Morning-glory it would not have it climbing about its branches, because it would spoil its leaves. 

 "What are you doing in our woods?" asked the tree.  "You should be growing in a garden, on an arbor or up the side of some little house. How came you here?" 

 The poor little Glory had to tell how it ran away from its mother with the breeze and was left alone in the woods all winter. 

 "Please don't send me back to the ground. I cannot see a thing there and I am so lonely," pleaded the little Morning-glory. 

 "I am sorry for you," said the tree, "but I cannot have my leaves spoiled on any account. I'll tell you what I will do, but you must be satisfied and never ask for more liberty. If you do, back you go to the ground." 

 Prev. P 13/68 next