The young green branches put on their winter coats. The leaves had no winter coats. They took great offence at this and were not content until they had vexed¹ themselves into a jaundice. Then they died. One by one, they fell to the ground and at last they lay in a great heap over the old, cross-grained root.

 

But the flowers had long since gone to the wall. In their stead were a number of queer, ugly things that rustled² whenever the wind blew. And, when the first storm of winter had passed over the lilac-bush, they also fell off and there was nothing left but the bare branches.

 

"Oh dear!" sighed the branches. "We wouldn't mind changing with you now, you black root. You're having a nice cosy³ time in the ground just now."

 

The root did not reply, for he had got something to meditate⁴ on. Close beside him, you must know, lay a singular little thing which he simply couldn't make out at all.

 

"What sort of a fellow are you?" asked the root, but received no answer.

 

"Can't you answer when you're spoken to by respectable people?" said the root again. "Seeing that we're neighbours, it seems reasonable that we should make each other's acquaintance."

 

But the queer thing persisted in saying nothing and the root meditated⁵ all through the winter and wondered what it could be.

 

Later, in the spring, the thing swelled⁶ out and grew ever so fat and, one day, a little sprout⁷ shot out of it.

 

"Good-morning!" said the root. "A merry spring-time to you! Perhaps you will now think fit to answer what I have been asking you these last six months: whom have I the honour of addressing?"

 

"I am the flowers' dream," replied the thing. "I am a seed and you are a blockhead."

分享到：