. cuttings..."

It was a real avenue and a real adventure.

"You managed that very well," said the poplar who stood nearest to the
willow-tree. "Only go on as you've begun and we will forgive you for not
being as smart as the rest of us."

"I'll do my best," replied the willow-tree.

The oak said nothing. He did not know what cuttings were, and did not
want to commit himself or make a blunder. But, later on, in the evening,
he whispered to the wild rose-bush:

"What was that rubbish he was talking about cuttings?"

"It's not rubbish at all," said the rose-bush. "It was right enough,
what the willow said. I myself came out of a seed, like you, and I
didn't see the keeper plant him either, for I happened to be busy with
my buds that day. But I have some smart cousins up in the garden at the
manor-house. They came out of cuttings. Their scent is so sweet, their
colours so bright and their blossoms so rich and full that one simply
can't believe it. But they get no seed."

[Illustration]

"What next!" said the oak.

"Yes, I, too, would rather be the wild rose I am," said the rose-bush.

3

Now years passed, as they are bound to pass.

Spring came and summer, autumn and winter. Rain came and snow came,
sunshine and storm, good days and bad. The birds flew out of the country
and flew back again, the flowers blossomed and withered, the trees burst
into leaf and cast their leaves again, when the time came.

The willow-cutting grew and grew quickly, after the manner of the
family. He was now quite a tree, with a thick trunk and a top with many
branches.

But there was no denying it: he was not a poplar. And his fellow-members
of the avenue were greatly displeased with him:

"Isn't it possible for you to grow taller in stature?" asked the
nearest poplar. "You ought never to have been here, but, once you've
joined the avenue through an accident, I should like to ask you to
stretch yourself up a bit."

"I'll do my best," answered the willow-tree.

"I fear your best isn't good enough," said the poplar. "You have no grip
at all to keep your branches in with. They hang quite slack on every
side, just as if you were a common beech or birch or oak or whatever the
ordinary trees are called."

"Do you call me ordinary, you windbag?" said the oak.

The poplar did not mind a jot what the oak said, but went on admonishing
the willow-tree:

"You should take example by the squire's wife," he said. "At first she
was