His bark had fallen off in great pieces and the holes below had joined in the middle, so that, one day, the fox was able to slip in at one and out at the other. The mice gnawed¹ at the rotten wood. There were only three or four twigs³ left up above and they were so thin and leafless that it was a pitiful sight to see.

 

But the garden at the top thrived as it had never done before.

 

The strawberry-plant put out big flowers which turned into red heavy berries. The black-currant-bush had also grown up and was bearing her fruit. The dandelions shone yellow; and there was also a little blue violet and a scarlet⁵ pimpernel, who only opened her flower when the sun shone strongest at noon, and a tall spike⁶ of rye, swaying before the wind.

 

"Why, you're better off now than ever!" said the wild rose-bush. "Since you absolutely had to come to grief and lose your crown, you may well say that fate has been kind to you and made amends⁷ to you."

 

"That's just what I do say," said the willow-tree. "If only I can bear all this good fortune! I am getting thinner and thinner in my shell and every year I lose a twig⁴ or two."

 

"It will end badly," said the oak. "I warned you beforehand. Remember my poor old hollow uncle!"

 

"I daresay that it will end as it always ends," said the elder-bush. "Whether the end comes one way or another, it is the same for all of us. But I think the willow-tree has life left in him yet."

 

"There's nothing left to show that he belongs to the family," said the nearest poplar. "His own branches are withering⁸ more and more; and it is only strange twigs and leaves that he fans himself with. So that's all right. We sha'n't say a word about his belonging to us:

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