The butterflies were gone, the flowers were not living.

The little girl plucked the lilies and tried to make them fly, but their heads fell heavily to the ground.
A big plough-boy came across the downs, and he said as he passed Hetty, "What are you picking the heads off the flowers for, you young one ?" "Why won't they fly like the butterflies ?" asked Hetty.
"Because they were made to grow." "Why can't I fly, too ?" "Because you were made to run." When Hetty went into the school she had a scratch from a briar all across her cheek.
"You are quite late, Hetty Gray," said the schoolmistress.

"And what have you been doing to scratch your face ?" "I was trying to make the flowers fly," said Hetty; and then she was put to stand in the corner in disgrace with her face to the wall..