‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  This tale stems from a quiet village set in hills far from the bustle of cities. Iffy, one of the older of the villagers, lived in a log house set in the outskirts of the town.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  In the spring and summer Iffy’™s garden was a joy to behold; flowers blossomed in magnificent profusion and variety. At this time, each year the garden attracted many a visitor. Two rose trees growing side by side close by the house entrance held a very special place for Iffy. There they received the early morning rays of sun which so suited them.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Everything about the two rose trees was elegant. They grew on slender straight stems, shoulder- high before spreading their branches; branches upon which in the spring and the summer would hold such beautiful roses and with such a rare scent that each flower was not only a joy to behold, but their fragrance was as intoxicating as a rare wine. The care given to the roses’™ welfare was obvious to even the most casual observer. They were treated royally and when moved by a breeze, even their movements would appear elegant. And it is from this bed that this story springs.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Iffy was as brown as the earth he loved. Tall and thin, his skin wrinkled by the sun had the appearance of old leather.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  At the rear of the house a vegetable garden contained many varieties, each, of course, in their special beds and patches.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Although the roses received the very best of treatment, their one great longing was to have growing beside them another young rose. Each spring and summer they would glance down for the first signs of a new shoot. Each winter they would dream, waiting for the next spring.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The day of the opening of this tale dawned bright. The storm of the night had passed and the spring-sun’™s rays warmed the soil. Life- giving fluid rose up through the roots and from stems and branches. Buds and shoots had their first peep upon the world in youthful excitement.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  An almost inaudible sound could be heard. Hushed, it rose like a mist from the ground.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Buds and shoots joined in. The whole garden became alive with the song. Iffy noticed it immediately and although aware of the song now many a year it would always excite him as though hearing it for the first time. He joined in, humming it into his beard.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  On this particular spring day one of the roses noticed a new shoot, the likes of which it had not seen before.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “Look! Look quick,” it excitedly said to the other, “A shoot is growing -I’m sure it’™s one of us. It’™s not like any weed I know!. Isn’t that wonderful?” The two kept glancing down and talking excitedly and continually noticed any changes in the shoot however slight. The days passed quickly now. Their excitement passed quickly through the garden. All the plants took delight in the roses’™ happiness.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  But as the days grew into weeks a note of doubt crept into their talk. “He does seem to be a little strange for a rose, don’™t you think?”,
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “I have had similar doubts, too, but didn’t want to mention anything,” said the other. It seems to have no signs about it of being neither elegant nor tall.”
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Their excitement now changed to disappointment. This had a most unhappy effect on the little one. He lost his appetite and went quite off his drink and food. The more time passed, the more dejected and rejected he felt.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The next day Iffy came out to tend to the roses. “I should imagine you would be truly happy to have another rose growing near you”, he said and after a short pause added: “Perhaps not quite like you, but elegant surely.” He smiled kindly and tended to them.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Talking to his plants was as natural to Iffy as talking to humans. What he was not aware of, was that the plants understood him quite well. It was only he that could not, of course hear them. He returned to the house.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The roses were astonished. ‘œCan’™t Iffy see that there must be something wrong?’ said the one.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œPerhaps we are wrong,’ said the other, his doubt causing him to worry deeply. Maybe it is a rose ‘“’  of another kind!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Fear clutched at them. ‘œIf this is true, why, then we have done the little one a great harm. They became upset, the little one’™s poor appearance adding to their plight. The two roses became dejected and miserable.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Some days later Iffy came once again to the roses. He knelt beside them, then, with the gentlest movement, scooped from its place the small plant, a clod of soil around its roots.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “How on earth did you get here, little cabbage?”, he said kindly, “you belong in the cabbage patch with all your brothers. Come along and we’ll find you a friendly place where you can grow happily. You must know also that although roses may be very beautiful, cabbages are far more important to people. You can be very proud of being a cabbage.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  With these words, Iffy began walking towards the cabbage patch in his vegetable garden.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Now anyone may well think that the little cabbage would be as sad as ever, being as he was quite surely now not a rose. But no, that did not happen at all. Cupped in Iffy’s strong yet gentle hand he felt far more confident than he had ever felt and even happy. “It’s so much nicer being a happy cabbage than a miserable rose”, he thought with an inner smile.’  In fact as soon as Iffy had planted him alongside his brothers, he immediately felt a sense of belonging that he had never felt before. A sense of relationship that was natural and good. He could not refrain from bursting into a little song:
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘ I’m a cabbage, I’m a cabbage
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘ And a happy cabbage too
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘ If you had been as sad as I
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘ You’™d be happy too.
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‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Meanwhile the two roses were waiting in great suspense for Iffy’™s return.’  It seemed an age. When Iffy finally appeared he was carrying a pot from which protruded a thin twig on which were visible a few tiny buds.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Removing the plant from the pot, Iffy placed it in the same hollow from which he had scooped the small cabbage. Compacting and pressing the soil about its roots, for Iffy it was like the tucking of an infant into bed.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Now, of course, the roses were now quite sure of the new plant, and with a deep sense of joy they both said, “Thank you, Iffy.” But, of course, Iffy didn’t hear. “I hope you both will now be very happy,” he said and picking up the empty pot, strode away contentedly humming the song of spring down into his beard.