there was once a beautiful wood, filled with thousands of slender trunks and with singing and whispering in her dark tree-tops.

she was surrounded by field and meadow; and there the farmer had built his house. and field and meadow were good and green; and the farmer was hard-working and grateful for the crops which he brought home. but the wood stood like a lady of the manor, high above them all.

in the winter-time the fields lay flat and miserable, the meadow was merely one great lake with ice upon it and the farmer sat huddled in the chimney-corner; but the wood just stood straight and placid with her bare branches and let the weather storm and snow as it pleased. in the spring, both meadow and field turned green and the farmer came out and began to plough and sow. but the wood burst forth into so great a splendour that no one could hope to describe it: there were flowers at her feet and sunshine in her green tree-tops; the song of the birds echoed in even the smallest bush; and perfume and bright colours and gaiety reigned here and there and everywhere.

now it happened, one summer's day, while the wood stood waving her branches, that she set eyes upon a funny brown thing which was spreading itself over the hills towards the west and which she had never seen before:

"what sort of fellow are you?" asked the wood.

"i am the heath," said the brown thing.

"i don't know you," said the wood, "and i don't like you: you are so ugly and black, you don't look like the field or the meadow or anything that i know. can you bud into leaf? can you blossom? can you sing?"

"indeed i can," said the heath. "in august, when your leaves begin to look dark and tired, my flowers will come out. then i am purple, purple from end to end, and more beautiful than anything you have ever seen."

"you're a braggart!" said the wood; and the conversation dropped.