one winter's day, a storm came, till all the trees in the wood creaked and crashed. the wind howled and tore down the avenue and all the proud poplars swayed like rushes. the snow drifted till sky and earth became one.

"now i can hold out no longer," said the old willow-tree.

then he snapped, right down by his root. the iron hoop which he wore round his head went clattering down the frozen road. the railing tumbled over. the garden up at the top was scattered by the wind in every direction: the black-currant-bush and the strawberry-plant, the mountain-ash and the little oak, the dandelions and the violets all blew away; and nobody knows what has become of them since.

the earth-worm lay just below and wriggled:

"i can't stand this," he said. "let them chop me into two ... into three.... but this is worse. the ground is as hard as iron: there's not a hole to creep into. and the frost bites my thin skin. good-bye, all of you: i'm dying!"