Once upon a time a bush was planted in a garden against a short fence, between two neighbors. The planter, for his part, loved the bush very much, and thought it very beautiful. His neighbor, however, found the bush very irritating.
“Too many thorns,” he said, “and none too pretty either.”
For many years the bush grew and flourished. Many people loved the bush, but the neighbor only scoffed at it. When visitors came, some said, “What a fine bush is growing in that man’s yard,” and others, “Oh, if only I had a bush half as lovely in my garden.”
But the neighbor said, “Humph! Be wary, for its thorns are very sharp!”
It happened once that the neighbor, while working in his yard near the bush, pricked himself upon one of the bushes many thorns.
“Too many thorns!” he declared, and sucked upon his injured finger.
Later, as the man talked to a woman from across the road and told her of his hurt finger, he asked, “Why would someone plant such an unattractive and thorny bush?” The woman answered, “I think it is a very lovely bush. You are very lucky to have it growing so close to your home.”
“Nonsense,” said the man. “It is nothing more than a thing to avoid. . . So many thorns.”
Years went by and both the bush and the neighbor grew old. The man grew sick and spent his days in bed. He coughed much and kept the curtains drawn, as the light hurt his eyes. Then one day his granddaughter came to visit and laid upon his bed a single rose of exquisite beauty.
“Where did you get this,” he inquired.
“From that delightful bush that grows against the fence in your neighbor’s garden. One of its branches was hanging over the fence, so I snipped this off and brought it to you. Now you can see the same pretty flowers you see every year growing on that bush.”
“There is no such bush growing in my neighbor’s yard. Surely you are mistaken,” he retorted. “It must be new, for it was not there last year.”
“No, Grandpapa. It is the same bush that blooms there every year,” she said, as she parted the curtains for her grandfather to see. “I am sure you have missed seeing it this year.”
The man squinted, and shaded his eyes, striving to see the bush of which she spake. “I cannot see any such bush. There is only that old thorny bush––There! By the fence,” he said, pointing a curved finger.
“Yes,” she said, “that is the one. Isn’t it beautiful?––and so many roses!”
