time passed and it was incredible that the old willow-tree should still be alive.

his bark had fallen off in great pieces and the holes below had joined in the middle, so that, one day, the fox was able to slip in at one and out at the other. the mice gnawed at the rotten wood. there were only three or four twigs left up above and they were so thin and leafless that it was a pitiful sight to see.

but the garden at the top thrived as it had never done before.

the strawberry-plant put out big flowers which turned into red heavy berries. the black-currant-bush had also grown up and was bearing her fruit. the dandelions shone yellow; and there was also a little blue violet and a scarlet pimpernel, who only opened her flower when the sun shone strongest at noon, and a tall spike of rye, swaying before the wind.

"why, you're better off now than ever!" said the wild rose-bush. "since you absolutely had to come to grief and lose your crown, you may well say that fate has been kind to you and made amends to you."

"that's just what i do say," said the willow-tree. "if only i can bear all this good fortune! i am getting thinner and thinner in my shell and every year i lose a twig or two."

"it will end badly," said the oak. "i warned you beforehand. remember my poor old hollow uncle!"

"i daresay that it will end as it always ends," said the elder-bush. "whether the end comes one way or another, it is the same for all of us. but i think the willow-tree has life left in him yet."

"there's nothing left to show that he belongs to the family," said the nearest poplar. "his own branches are withering more and more; and it is only strange twigs and leaves that he fans himself with. so that's all right. we sha'n't say a word about his belonging to us: hush!"

"hush ... hush ... hush!" whispered the poplars along the avenue.

one afternoon the earth-worm crept up there. hitherto, he had always kept down in the earth, for fear of the many birds about. he was the longest, stoutest, fattest earth-worm in the world.

"hullo, my dear earth-worm, how are you?" said the willow-tree. "i knew you were there, but i have not had the pleasure of seeing you. i am glad you are doing so well in me. how did you come up here exactly?"

"to tell the truth, it was really the blackbird's fault," said the earth-worm. "he dropped me out of his beak. that is to say, he had only got half of me. the rest of me drew back into the ground. so i was only half a worm when i arrived."

"you're welcome all the same," said the willow-tree. "it makes no difference to me if you're whole or half. i myself have lost my crown and become no more than a wretched cripple. but are you all right again now?"

"oh dear yes!" said the earth-worm. "i don't mind in the least if they chip one end off me. it soon grows again, if only they leave me alone.... but do you know what sort of little sprout this is who is coming up here beside me, with such a funny thick hat on his head?"

"i don't know him," said the willow-tree. "i have become feeble with years and can't at once make out all that grows on me. do you know him?"

"i should think i ought to!" said the earth-worm. "why it was i who dragged him into the ground a couple of years ago. he was joined on to a leaf and stalk and i ate up both the leaf and the stalk, but i couldn't manage this chap. that wasn't so odd either, for he was an acorn. now he has sprouted, he's a little oak."

"an oak!" said the willow-tree, overcome with respectful awe.

"he blew over here in the great storm of the autumn before last," said the earth-worm. "i remember it distinctly, because you were creaking so that i thought it would have been up with all of us."

"what's that you're saying?" said the oak on the little hillock in the fields. "is one of my children growing on you?"

"yes," said the old willow-tree. "it's really a little oak. that's a great honour for me."

"it's folly," said the oak. "he must be going to die."

"we all have to die," said the elder-bush.