At last, after another good cry, she chose the biggest she could find, and ran away laughing, to launch her boat amongst the rest.
But my attention was first and chiefly attracted by a group of fairies near the cottage, who were talking together around what seemed a last dying primrose.

They talked singing, and their talk made a song, something like this: "Sister Snowdrop died Before we were born." "She came like a bride In a snowy morn." "What's a bride ?" "What is snow?
"Never tried." "Do not know." "Who told you about her ?" "Little Primrose there Cannot do without her." "Oh, so sweetly fair!" "Never fear, She will come, Primrose dear." "Is she dumb ?" "She'll come by-and-by." "You will never see her." "She went home to dies, "Till the new year." "Snowdrop!" "'Tis no good To invite her." "Primrose is very rude, "I will bite her." "Oh, you naughty Pocket! "Look, she drops her head." "She deserved it, Rocket, "And she was nearly dead." "To your hammock--off with you!" "And swing alone." "No one will laugh with you." "No, not one." "Now let us moan." "And cover her o'er." "Primrose is gone." "All but the flower." "Here is a leaf." "Lay her upon it." "Follow in grief." "Pocket has done it." "Deeper, poor creature! Winter may come." "He cannot reach her-- That is a hum." "She is buried, the beauty!" "Now she is done." "That was the duty." "Now for the fun." And with a wild laugh they sprang away, most of them towards the cottage.

During the latter part of the song-talk, they had formed themselves into a funeral procession, two of them bearing poor Primrose, whose death Pocket had hastened by biting her stalk, upon one of her own great leaves.

They bore her solemnly along some distance, and then buried her under a tree.

Although I say HER I saw nothing but the withered primrose-flower on its long stalk.