Alone, all alone, he sighed. Why him - why did he have to be a rose anyway? Why couldn't he be -laughter broke through his sad reflectings - yes, like them? That's right! Why couldn't he be a daffodil?

Lifting his drooping red head, he gazed longingly across his stony field, over the wire fence, into the luscious green meadow. How beautiful they are, all yellow and bright, and how dismal my deep red

outfit when compared to theirs. And their stems - so straight and smooth, so full, such a pleasant green! An almost furtive glance down at his own stem, twisted and pocked and simply loaded with those

ugly, hurting old thorns brought tears to his eyes. Quickly he shook his head, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Oh well, they'd probably just think it was dew.

Me - them: that's what hurts most. They stand together, happy and laughing and free, enjoying each other. I spend my life hiding by this rock, unhappy and by myself. If I only weren't so ugly, I'd be with

them. I could be fun, the life of the party, bright and... if I just weren't a miserable old rose.

"Pardon me, sir. Pardon me." Jerking his head so fast he almost fell over backwards, he found himself looking into the face of a lovely young lady.

"Who are you?" he gasped.

"I'm from the great king. You, out of all his subjects, have been chosen "king for a day!" Remember that contest, those stamps? Well, you've won!"

He gulped. hardly daring to speak, he whispered, "What do I get? (Nothing much," he thought to himself, "with my luck.")

Her eyes glinting, the lady whispered back into his ear, "I can give you two wonderful gifts - one now, one at midnight. Now, you can be wherever you wish. Then, at midnight, you can be whoever you

wish, forever."

Could he believe his ears - wherever, whoever? In his imagination, he saw the waving, happy, laughing daffodils, and himself in the middle of them, wearing a sparkly yellow coat. Hardly thinking, he

blurted out, "I want to be there with them!"

"Hi, rose. Who are you? Where did you come from? Never mind. Come and dance and sing, laugh, and jump and play." And so he did. Never had he had such fun, felt so good, so "one of the gang."

And at midnight, it's his forever! No more a rose he.

Then it happened! "Help! Run! It's the beast! We'll be trampled to death!" Starting up from his play, the rose saw a huge figure bearing down upon them. Suddenly, almost reflexively, he jumped in front

of his friends and swung his thorny stem. It wasn't going to hurt his friends! Smack - right on the nose! With a wild yelp, the attacker veered to the right, and, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

His red anger subsiding, his breath returning, he turned around to face a crowd of silent daffodils, transfixed with fear and horror. At their feet lay one of their number, stem broken, head crushed into the

dirt, dead.

Tears rose from his loving red heart, strength from his deep red pain. Silently, he buried the so-young daffodil; quietly, he moved among his frozen friends. Wherever he moved, he brought his comfort,

his understanding, his tears.

Night fell - quiet, finally. The daffodils huddled around him for safety and sleep. He would protect, be brave, be strong. After all, he's a rose!

At midnight, the lovely lady returned. She smiled when she saw all the daffodils nestled up so close to him, sleeping under his watchful eye. "Well, Mr. Rose, I'm back. Your wish is my command. Who

do you want to be?" She stopped, smiled, waited.

Who did he want to be? His mind flitted back over the day - the laughter and play, his battle with the animal, his fight with fear and death. Then he looked at his new-found friends, so glad that he's a rose.

His gaze wandered to himself - his thorny, sturdy stem that had saved the day, his red coat so filled with the pain of love, his eyes ready to flame with anger or cry with another's pain. Slowly he lifted his

head, took a deep breath.

"Young lady, I just want to be me."

With a kind, understanding smile, she nodded. "Sir, you finally are."