The willow¹-tree, however, was not the worst off. He was easily contented² by nature. And then he was so greatly pleased with his new crown that he thought he could manage, whatever happened.

 

Up in the top, in the middle of the wreath of green branches, was a hole which had come when the keeper had chopped off the crown. The hole was not so very small even; and, when it rained, it was full of water, which remained for a good while after the sun had dried the ground again.

 

One day, a blackbird came flying and sat down up there:

 

"May I take a drop of water from you, you dear old Willow-Tree?" he asked.

 

"With the greatest pleasure," said the willow-tree. "By the way, I am not so very old. I have been ill-treated."

 

"Oh, yes," said the blackbird, "you have been polled! We know all about that."

 

"Would you be so kind as to wipe your feet?" said the willow-tree. "I only mean that I should not like you to muddy the water if another should come and want a drink. One can never tell, in this drought."

 

The blackbird scraped his feet clean on a splinter of wood that was there. The splinter broke off and, when the bird flew away, there was quite a little heap of earth left. Next day a swallow came and next a lark³ and gradually quite a number of birds.

 

For it soon got about that, at a pinch, there was generally a drop of water to be found in the old polled willow in the avenue. They all left something or other behind them; and, by the autumn, there was so much up there that, one fine day, it collapsed⁴ and quite filled up the little hole where the water was.

 

"You're simply keeping a public-house," said the oak.

 

"Why shouldn't one be kind to one's fellow-creatures?" said the willow-tree.

 

It was now autumn. The withered

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