Little Ida's Flowers

Little Ida loved her flowers. They were small and bright and lived in a glass full of water on the windowsill. But today their heads were drooping, and their petals looked tired.

“My poor flowers,” Ida whispered. “Why are you hanging your heads?”

A young student, who often visited Ida’s family, came into the room with a big book under his arm. He smiled kindly at her. Ida held up the glass. “Look! My flowers are sick.”

“Sick?” the student said. “Oh no, they’re just sleepy. They danced all night at the Flower King’s ball.”

Ida’s eyes grew round. “Flowers can dance?”

“Of course,” said the student. He sat down and opened his book, which had drawings of birds and castles and gardens. “Every night, when you are asleep, the Flower King invites them to a grand ball in his castle. The roses wear rustling gowns, the tulips bow like gentlemen, and the hyacinths ring tiny bells to start the music.”

Ida looked closely at her flowers. Could that really be true? “Do they dance in our house?”

“Sometimes,” the student said. He took a sharp pair of scissors from his pocket and snipped and snipped a piece of paper into a tiny dancer with a high skirt and pointed toes. “This little dancer knows all the steps. Put her near your flowers tonight, and she’ll invite them to dance. But now your poor flowers are tired. You must tuck them in.”

Ida clapped her hands. “I’ll put them to bed!”

She brought her doll’s little bed and made it neat. She lined it with a soft handkerchief and laid the flowers down gently, stem by stem. She even pulled up a tiny blanket and tucked it under their weak leaves. The paper dancer stood beside the bed like a graceful guard.

“Sleep well,” Ida whispered. “You may dance again when you wake.”

The student nodded. “And if some do not wake, we will give them a proper burial in the garden. Do not be sad—flowers know how to come back with the sunshine.”

That evening, after bedtime stories and a goodnight kiss, Ida’s room grew quiet. Moonlight spilled across the floor like silver water. Ida kept her eyes open just a little longer. She wanted to see if the student’s tale was true.

The tall clock in the hall struck twelve. Ting. Ting. Ting. At once, the paper dancer gave a tiny leap. She bowed to the bed and spun on one pointed toe. Her paper skirt swirled like a white bell. Ida held her breath.

A soft rustle answered her. The flowers stirred. One by one, they lifted their heads. The pale snowdrops curtsied. The crocuses shook out their purple sleeves. The tulips straightened like handsome officers with bright coats, and the roses unfurled their skirts.

The paper dancer clapped without a sound and beckoned. The flowers stepped from the little bed with careful grace. The hyacinths rang their bells—ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling—and the dance began.

Around the room they went, gliding over the floor, circling the chair legs like they were grand pillars. A red rose led a golden tulip in a stately dance. The blue violets joined hands and skipped in a ring. Even the tiny forget-me-nots hopped sweetly, trying not to be left behind.

Then, as if a warm wind had opened a hidden door, someone small and splendid entered. He wore a crown lightly as a petal and a coat the color of new leaves. He was no taller than Ida’s hand. All the flowers bowed low.

“It is the Flower King,” Ida whispered to herself.

He smiled at the dancers and lifted a green wand. “Dance, my dear ones. Tonight is bright.” The music of petals and leaves filled the room, a sound like whispering rain.

The paper dancer leapt and spun and was so light that she almost flew. She was a fine partner, though made of paper, and the Flower King bowed politely to her as well. Ida’s heart beat happily to the rhythm of the little ball.

But not every flower could dance for long. One small blossom lay still in the doll’s bed. Its petals were crinkled and grey at the edges. The Flower King stepped close and touched it kindly. The dance slowed. The flowers gathered, heads bent.

A gentle procession began. Two tall tulips carried the little flower in a tiny carriage made from Ida’s toy box lid, lined with a ribbon. The violets walked behind, and the hyacinths rang soft farewell notes. The paper dancer folded her hands, and even the roses were quiet.

They set the little blossom in Ida’s desk drawer to wait for the morning, when a real grave could be made in the garden. The Flower King lifted his wand. “Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we remember. Nothing truly lovely is ever lost.”

The music rose again, brighter now, as if all the blooms were dancing not only for themselves, but for the one who could dance no more. They swirled and bowed, twirled and laughed in petal voices. Ida tried not to giggle out loud.

At last the first pale ribbon of dawn touched the window. The cock crowed far away. The Flower King raised his hand. “Back to your places, dear ones.”

The flowers hurried softly. They climbed onto the little bed and settled under the handkerchief. The roses drew their leaves around them like quilts. The violets cuddled close. The paper dancer made one last bow to Ida—yes, she truly did—and then stood very still, as if she had never moved at all.

Ida slipped down under her covers and fell asleep with a smile.

In the morning, the sun was warm on the curtains. Ida sat up and ran to the doll’s bed. The flowers were as they had been, heads drooping. But Ida knew their secret now. She found the quiet blossom in her desk drawer and carried it carefully downstairs.

The student was at the table, and Ida told him everything in a rush—the bells, the bows, the Flower King, the little funeral. The student listened with bright eyes and nodded.

“Then we must keep our promise,” he said. “Let us give your flower a fair resting place.”

They went into the garden with a small spade. In a sunny corner beneath the window, they dug a tiny grave. Ida lined it with colored paper and a leaf as soft as velvet. She laid the flower inside and folded the earth over it. The student wrote a few gentle words on a small card and stuck it in the ground with a twig: Here rests a little flower. Sleep well till spring’s soft call.

Ida tucked a blue ribbon beside the marker. She stood a moment with her hands folded, not sad now, but thoughtful.

“Will it come back?” she asked.

The student smiled. “When the warm days return and the Flower King holds his ball in the sunshine, you will see new little flowers in new dresses. That is how they rise again.”

Ida looked across the garden. Already, tiny green points were pushing up in the beds. She felt as if she could hear the hyacinths’ bells far away, calling softly. She bent and patted the earth. “Goodnight,” she said. “I’ll see you at the next dance.”