The willow-tree became more and more decayed and the hole filled with earth and more customers arrived. One spring there was a dainty little sprout¹, which the tree welcomed under the impression that it was a dandelion.

 

"Hullo!" said the sprout. "What do you think I am?"

 

"I have the highest opinion of you," said the willow-tree. "But you are still so small. May I ask your name?"

 

"I am a strawberry-plant," said the sprout. "And one of the best. My own idea is that I am the equal of those which grow in the manor-garden. Just wait till I get my fruit: then we shall see."

 

"Goodness me!" said the willow-tree. "If I could only understand where you came from!"

 

Another sprout came, which proved to be the beginning of a black-currant-bush. A third came, which grew into a dear little mountain-ash. Every summer there were a couple of dandelions. The bees came and buzzed and sucked honey and flew away with it to their hives. The butterflies flitted from flower to flower, sipped² a little honey here and there and ate it up. They knew they had to die, so there was no reason for saving it.

 

"It's wonderful!" said the willow-tree. "If only I knew where all this good fortune comes from!"

 

"Never mind about that: just take it as it comes," said the elder-bush.

 

"You will have a fine old age," said the wild rose-bush.

 

"You're getting hollower and hollower," said the oak. "Remember what I told you about my poor old uncle."

 

"He has gradually become quite weak-minded," said the nearest poplar.

 

"Quite weak-minded ... quite weak-minded ... weak-minded," whispered the poplars along the avenue.

 

The blackbird was the first who had visited the willow-tree and he returned several times each year. One day he came in a great state of fright and asked if he might hide up there. There was a horrid³ boy who had been shooting at him all the morning with his air-gun:

 

"I am really preserved at this time of the year," he said. "But what does that

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