堕落的偶像(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.

"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 reply, for he had got something to meditate on. close beside him, you must know, lay a singular little thing which he simply couldn't make out at all.

"what sort of a fellow are you?" asked the root, but received no answer.

"can't you answer when you're spoken to by respectable people?" said the root again. "seeing that we're neighbours, it seems reasonable that we should make each other's acquaintance."

but the queer thing persisted in saying nothing and the root meditated all through the winter and wondered what it could be.

later, in the spring, the thing swelled out and grew ever so fat and, one day, a little sprout shot out of it.

"good-morning!" said the root. "a merry spring-time to you! perhaps you will now think fit to answer what i have been asking you these last six months: whom have i the honour of addressing?"

"i am the flowers' dream," replied the thing. "i am a seed and you are a blockhead."

the root pondered about this for some little time. he did not mind being called a blockhead, for, when you're a root, you have to submit to being abused. but he couldn't quite understand that remark about the flowers' dream and so he begged for a further explanation.

"i can feel that the ground is still too hard for me to break through," said the seed, "so i don't mind having a chat with you. you see, i was lying inside one of the flowers, when you others were squabbling with them in the summer, and i heard all that you said. i had a fine laugh at you, believe me; but i dared not join in the conversation: i was too green for that."

"well, but, now that you are big, i suppose you're allowed to talk?" asked the root.

"big enough not to care a fig for you!" replied the seed and, at the same time, shot a dear little root into the ground. "i have a root of my own now and need not submit to any of your impudence."

the old root opened his eyes very wide indeed, but said nothing.

"however, i prefer to treat you with civility," said the seed. "after all, in a manner of speaking, you're my father."

"am i?" asked the root and looked as important as ever he could.

"of course you are," replied the seed. "you are all of you my parents. you procured food for me in the earth and the leaves cooked it in the sun. the branches lifted me into the air and light, but the flower rocked me in the bottom of her calyx and dreamed and, in her dream, whispered in the ears of the bumblebees, so that they might tell it to the other lilacs. you all gave me of your best; i owe my whole life to you."

this gave the root something to think about. it was almost midsummer before he solved the problem. but, when he had got it thoroughly into his stupid head, he asked the branches, in an unusually civil voice, whether there was not a fine little lilac-bush standing near them.

"certainly there is!" replied the branches. "but you just attend to your business! it's blowing hard enough to topple us all over this very moment."

"never you fear!" said the root. "i shall hold tight enough. i only wanted to tell you that that little lilac-bush is my child."

"ha, ha, ha!" laughed the branches. "do you think an old black root like you can get such a sweet little child as that? it's prettier and fresher and greener than you can imagine."

"it's my child for all that," said the root, proudly.

and then he told the branches what he had heard from the seed; and the branches repeated it to all the leaves.

"well, there!" they all said; and then they understood that they were a big family, in which each had his own work to see to.

"hush!" they said to one another. "let us be careful not to disturb the flowers in their dream."

and the old root toiled away, as if he were paid for it, to provide lots of food; and the branches stretched and pushed and twisted awfully to supply proper light and air; and the leaves fluttered in the warm summer breeze and looked as if they were doing nothing at all; but, inside them, there was roasting and stewing in thousands of little kitchens.

and up at the top of the bush sat the flowers and dreamed and sang:

"dear little seed, sing lullaby!

leaves shall fall and flowers shall die.

you, in the black earth singing low,

into a bonny bush shall grow,

a bush with leaves and flowers

scenting june's glad hours!"