around the garden ran a hedge of hazelnut bushes, and beyond it lay fields and meadows with cows and sheep; but in the middle of the garden stood a blooming rosebush, and under it sat a snail, who had a lot inside his shell - namely, himself.
"wait till my time comes," it said. "i'll do a great deal more than grow roses; more than bear nuts; or give milk, like cows and the sheep!"
"i expect a great deal from you," said the rosebush. "may i dare ask when this is going to happen?"
"i'll take my time," said the snail. "you're always in such a hurry! that does not arouse expectations!"
next year the snail lay in almost the same spot, in the sunshine beneath the rose tree, which was budding and bearing roses as fresh and as new as ever. and the snail crept halfway out of its shell, stretched out its horns and drew them back in again.
"everything looks just as it did last year. no progress at all; the rose tree sticks to its roses, and that's as far as it gets."
the summer passed; the autumn came. the rose tree still bore buds and roses till the snow fell. the weather became raw and wet, and the rose tree bent down toward the ground. the snail crept into the ground.
then a new year began, and the roses came out again, and the snail did, too.
"you're an old rosebush now," the snail said. "you must hurry up and die, because you've given the world all that's in you. whether it has meant anything is a question that i haven't had time to think about, but this much is clear enough - you've done nothing at all for your inner development, or you would certainly have produced something else. how can you answer that? you'll soon be nothing but a stick. can you understand what i'm saying?"
