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Once Jennie had everything. She slept on a round pillow upstairs and a square pillow downstairs. She had her own comb and brush, two different bottles of pills, eyedrops, eardrops, a thermometer, and for cold weather a red wool sweater. There were two windows for her to look out of and two bowls to eat from. She even had a master who loved her.

But Jennie didn't care. In the middle of the night she packed everything in a black leather bag with gold buckles and looked out of her favorite window for the last time.

"You have everything," said the potted plant that happened to be looking out the same window.

Jennie nibbled a leaf.

"You have two windows," said the plant. "I have only one."

Jennie sighed and bit off another leaf. The plant continued.

"Two pillows, two bowls, a red wool sweater, eyedrops, eardrops, two different bottles of pills, a thermometer, and he even loves you."

"That is true, " said Jennie, chewing more leaves.

"You have everything," repeated the plant.

Jennie only nodded, her mouth full of leaves.

"Then why are you leaving?" "Because, " said Jennie, snapping off the stem and blossom, "I am discontented.

I want something I do not have. There must be more to life than having everything!" The plant had nothing to say. It had nothing left to say it with.