ere you are, till the winter is past,"
said the keeper. "When the snow lies thick and smooth all over the
roads, you can do good service as a warning-post against the ditch. What
will happen afterwards depends upon the squire."

"That was a fine ending to the cutting-farce," said the oak-tree.

"Poor Willow-Tree!" said the wild rose-bush.

"Thank you," said the willow-tree. "I still feel a little stunned. It is
no trifle to lose the whole of one's crown. I don't quite know what's to
become of me."

"It's a terrible scandal," said the nearest poplar. "A wholly
unprecedented family-scandal. If only they would come and take you away
altogether, so that you couldn't stand there and disgrace us like a
horrible, withered stick!"

"A family-scandal ... a scandal ... a scandal," whispered the poplars
along the avenue.

"I don't feel at all withered, oddly enough," said the willow-tree. "I
don't know either that I have done anything to be ashamed of. I was set
up here and I did my best to fill the position. The squire praised me
one day and cut me down another. We must take life as it comes. I shall
never be a poplar, but I am one of the family for all that. And a family
has other qualities, besides pride. So let us see in a year's time what
becomes of me."

"He's speaking like a man," said the wild rose-bush.

The oak-tree said nothing. The poplars whispered in their superior way,
but talked no more about the family-scandal.

5

Now it so happened that the squire and his wife went to Italy and stayed
there for a couple of years. And this, in its turn, led to the result
that the polled willow was left to stand in peace among the proud
poplars. When the master and mistress were away, there was no one who
gave a further thought to the stately avenue.

Throughout the winter, the willow stood silent and perplexed. And it is
quite natural that a tree should not care to talk when his head is
chopped off. But, half-way through March, suddenly one day he fell
a-moaning in the most piteous fashion:

"Oh, my head, my head!" he cried.

"Well, I never in all my born days heard the like," said the oak.
"Listen to him talking about his head, when all the world can see that
it's been chopped off, so that there's nothing but a wretched stump
left."

"It's all very well for you to talk," said the willow-tree. "I should
like to see you in my place. All my crown is gone, all the big branches
and the little twigs, on which the