Little Christel, III

No thought of herself was in her head, As she passed out at the end of the street, And came to a rose-tree tall and red, Drooping and faint with the summer heat.

She ran to a brook that was flowing by, She made of her two hands a nice round cup, And washed the roots of the rose-tree high, Till it lifted its languid blossoms up.

"O happy brook!" thought little Christel, "You have done some good this summer's day, You have made the flowers look fresh and well!" Then she rose and went on her way.