Once there was a little pink Rosebud, and she lived down in a little dark house under the ground. One day she was sitting there, all by herself, and it was very still. Suddenly, she heard a little tap, tap, tap, at the door.
“Who is that?” she said.
“It’s the Rain, and I want to come in;” said a soft, sad, little voice.
“No, you can’t come in,” the little Rosebud said.
By and by she heard another little tap, tap, tap on the window pane.
“Who is there?” she said.
The same soft little voice answered, “It’s the Rain, and I want to come in!”
“No, you can’t come in,” said the little Rosebud.
Then it was very still for a long time. At last, there came a little rustling, whispering sound, all round the window: rustle, whisper, whisper.
“Who is there?” said the little Rosebud.
“It’s the Sunshine,” said a little, soft, cheery voice, “and I want to come in!”
“N — no,” said the little pink rose, “you can’t come in.” And she sat still again.
Pretty soon she heard the sweet little rustling noise at the key-hole.
