The willow-tree became more and more decayed and the hole filled with earth and more customers arrived. One spring there was a dainty little , which the tree welcomed under the impression that it was a dandelion.
"Hullo!" said the sprout. "What do you think I am?"
"I have the highest opinion of you," said the willow-tree. "But you are still so small. May I ask your name?"
"I am a strawberry-plant," said the sprout. "And one of the best. My own idea is that I am the equal of those which grow in the manor-garden. Just wait till I get my fruit: then we shall see."
"Goodness me!" said the willow-tree. "If I could only understand where you came from!"
Another sprout came, which proved to be the beginning of a black-currant-bush. A third came, which grew into a dear little mountain-ash. Every summer there were a couple of dandelions. The bees came and buzzed and sucked honey and flew away with it to their hives. The butterflies flitted from flower to flower, a little honey here and there and ate it up. They knew they had to die, so there was no reason for saving it.
"It's wonderful!" said the willow-tree. "If only I knew where all this good fortune comes from!"
"Never mind about that: just take it as it comes," said the elder-bush.
"You will have a fine old age," said the wild rose-bush.
"You're getting hollower and hollower," said the oak. "Remember what I told you about my poor old uncle."
"He has gradually become quite weak-minded," said the nearest poplar.
"Quite weak-minded ... quite weak-minded ... weak-minded," whispered the poplars along the avenue.
The blackbird was the first who had visited the willow-tree and he returned several times each year. One day he came in a great state of fright and asked if he might hide up there. There was a boy who had been shooting at him all the morning with his air-gun:
"I am really preserved at this time of the year," he said. "But what does that of a boy care about that? And, if I must lose my life, I would rather be caught in a proper ."
"I should have thought it would be better to be shot," said the willow-tree. "Then you're done with for good and all."
"I don't agree with you," said the blackbird. "While there's life there's hope. You can always hang on in the snare and struggle and feel that there may be a chance of escaping."
"Yes, indeed," said the willow-tree, . "That's just my case. I also am caught in a trap and know that I must die soon, but I cling to life nevertheless. Well, I have now
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