On a stalk in a rose bush, a silky red bud was about to bloom when along came a curious hare.
The hare sniffed the sweet perfume between the unfolding petals.
“You smell wonderful,” said the hare as it nuzzled the bud. “And you are so soft.”
“Watch how you go,” the rose warned. “I may be scented and soft, but I have weapons to defend myself if you harm me.”
“Why would I harm you?” asked the hare. “Are you that tasty?”
“Stay away or I will draw blood!” spat the rose.
The hare regarded the rose and its stalk more closely.
“Those thorns are your weapons?” it scoffed. “Sharp they may be, but they are no match for the edge of my teeth,” and with its big, chisel-like incisors, it chopped off blossom and stalk, and ate them.
The hare was best pleased with this unexpected meal. The bud was delicious, the victory sweet.
But when the hare swallowed, a small thorn stuck in its throat. A single cough and out came the blood, dark and glistening, like the petals of the rose had been.
So it came to pass that the broken stalk of the suspicious rose and the bloodied corpse of the prideful hare withered away side by side, until nothing remained of either.
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