le.

A little later, the leaves began to whisper again:

"Since you absolutely must have some one to abuse, why not go for the
flowers? They are more smartly dressed than any of us; they live at the
top of the tree, nearest to the sun. And what do they do? Perhaps you
know, for, upon my word, we don't!"

"Quite right!" growled the root. "We won't submit to it any longer.
Please render an account of yourselves, you lazy, dressed-up flowers!
What are you good for? Why should we others drudge and toil for you?"

[Illustration]

The flowers rocked softly to and fro and wafted their fragrance in the
air. The others had to ask three times before they got an answer; but
then the flowers sang:

"Where sunlight is streaming,
We float, ever dreaming..."

"Yes, we believe you!" said the leaves. "And do you call that working?"

But the flowers sang again:

"Where sunlight is streaming,
We float, ever dreaming
Of light and happiness and love,
Of all the glory of heaven above,
Of buds which at last through black earth shall rise
With thousands of tiny, lilac eyes."

"Bosh!" whispered the leaves and "Bosh!" cried the branches and "Bosh!"
growled the root, on receiving this explanation.

They all agreed that it was a great shame that they should work for
those lazy flowers. And they shook and creaked and whispered and cried
and growled for sheer rage; and it became a terrible commotion.

But the flowers only laughed at them and sang:

"Grumble, root, and whisper, leaf!
No flower feels the slightest grief.
Long brown shoots, for all your screaming,
Not a flower is baulked of dreaming!"

3

The summer passed and it was autumn.

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 vexed 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 rustled 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.

[Illustration]

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

The root did not rep