So that was an end of her.  And after that the little boy was ever so much happier, and all the summer time he sate with his little rose-coloured shoes under the wild rose tree and listened to the white bird’s song.  But when winter came and the wild rose tree was all barren and bare save for snowflake flowers, the white bird came no longer and the little boy grew tired of waiting for it.  So one day he gave up altogether, and they buried him under the rose tree beside his little playmate.

Now when the spring came and the rose tree blossomed, the flowers were no longer white.  They were edged with rose colour like the little boy’s shoes, and in the centre of each blossom there was a beautiful tuft of golden silk like the little girl’s hair.

And if you look in a wild rose you will find these things there still.