es of it down in the ground."

"Upon my word!" said the oak. "To hear that brat of a dandelion talking
about roots!"

The willow-tree stood for a while and said nothing, but thought all the
more. The wild rose-bush comforted the dandelion and said nice things
about the willow-tree; the elder-bush said it would be all right; the
oak grumbled and asked whether, after all, one could expect much from a
tree without a crown.

"Now listen," said the willow-tree, who had paid no attention to the
others. "I'll tell you something, my dear Dandelion, which I don't
generally care to talk about. You know I have had a bad time and have
lost my crown?"

"I heard you say so," said the dandelion. "I can also see that you look
rather cowed among the other trees in the avenue."

"Don't talk about the poplars," said the willow-tree, distressfully.
"They are my relations, but they have never forgiven me for being put
here by mistake as a cutting. Look at them and look at me and you can
judge for yourself that such a monster as I must be a blot upon a
stately avenue of poplars."

"He has some sense of shame left in him," said the nearest poplar.

And all the other trees of the avenue whispered their assent.

"You think about it too much," said the elder-bush. "The more one broods
upon a thing, the worse it becomes. I should have died long ago, you
know, if I had stood and cried at the losses I have suffered."

"Yes, that's as may be," said the willow-tree. "We all take things in
our own way and I in mine. I have not the least intention of throwing up
the game, but I know that I am a cripple and shall never be anything
else. I thought, a little time ago, that my branches up there would turn
into a new crown, but that was sheer folly. They grow and strut and turn
green and that is all they do. And then, besides, I feel that I am
beginning to decay.

"What's that you say?" asked the wild rose-bush.

"Are you decaying?" asked the oak.

"Yes ... that's by far the worst thing of all," said the elder-bush.

"He's revealing his inmost secrets to the rabble," said the nearest
poplar. "Let us stand erect and stiff and whisper and look aloft, dear
brothers of the avenue!"

All the poplars whispered.

"I am decaying," said the willow-tree. "I am decaying in my top. How
could it be otherwise? There's a puddle up there in summer, the snow
lies there in winter and now it's full of moist earth. I can plainly
perceive that the hole is gro