no better than a common kitchen-maid. She used to scour the pots and
make up the fire and stir the milk when it boiled. I used often to see
her go down the avenue bare-armed and bare-headed, with a pail in her
hand and her skirts tucked back."

"So did we ... so did we ... so did we," whispered the poplars along the
avenue.

"Then the squire fell in love with her and made her his wife," said the
poplar. "Now she goes in silk, with a train to her dress and
ostrich-feathers on her head and gold slippers on her feet and long
gloves from Paris on her hands. She looks down from on high: only
yesterday she was driving along here in her smart turn-out with the four
bays."

"We saw her ... we saw her ... we saw her," whispered the poplars along
the avenue.

"She joined the avenue, do you see?" said the poplar. "She learnt to
hold herself erect and whisper; and now she whispers and holds herself
erect. I think you might profit by her example. After all, you belong
to the family, even though you are not one of the real poplars; so it
ought to be easier for you than her."

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

But nothing came of it. His branches kept on growing out at the sides
and the whole tree was not more than half as tall as the lowest poplars.
For the rest, he was quite nice and comfortable-looking, but that's not
what counts in the smart world.

And the poplars grew more and more annoyed every day.

They themselves stood stiff and straight and strutted and gave no more
shade than their trunks were able to cast. But under the willow there
was quite a big shady place.

"He's ruining the whole avenue," said the nearest poplar.

"The whole avenue ... the whole avenue ... the whole avenue," whispered
the poplars.

Then, one regular sunny summer's day, the squire came walking along. He
took off his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat down
in the shade of the willow:

[Illustration]

"Thank you for your shade, you good Willow-Tree," he said. "Those
confounded poplars stand there and strut and don't give as much shade as
the back of my hand. I think I'll cut them all down and plant willows in
their stead."

For that happened to be his mood that day.

"Did you hear the squire praise me?" said the willow-tree, when he had
gone.

"Goodness gracious!" said the nearest poplar. "Did we hear him? It's a
perfect scandal! He talked just like a common peasant. But, of course,
that comes of marryi