Autumn came and all the good apples in the garden were gathered and stored in the . There was no one who cared about the crab-apple-tree. Her apples remained on the branches till they fell to the ground, where they lay and rotted. But the tree was well-pleased with the state of things. She knew that little crab-apple-trees would from them and that was why she had put them .  
 
 
Then winter came, with frost and snow. The old dog lay all day under the stove in the parlour. The crab-apple-tree stood outside in the snow, with the queer stone under her branch.
 
When spring returned, the dog, one day, came jogging round the fence.
 
It took longer than last year and he was now almost quite blind in the other eye as well. But he found his way to the apple-tree and rubbed himself, so that she saw that he still had those .
 
"All going as usual, Dog?"
 
"Yes, Apple-Tree.... Same with you?"
 
"Well, I'll tell you," said the tree. "I daresay you remember that stone the blackbird brought me? Well, look here, some time ago, I felt a most curious and and aching just where it was."
 
"Then it must be a ," said the dog.
 
"Now listen," said the tree. "It was a most unpleasant sensation. And then my branch up at the place where the stone was...."
 
"It's a flea, it's a flea!" cried the dog. "There's no doubt about it. Just rub yourself up against me, old Apple-Tree! It's only fair that I should make you a return for your kindness."
 
"What does a flea look like?" asked the apple-tree.
 
"We-ell," said the dog and rubbed himself. "They're that sort of chaps, you know, that one really never has time to see them."
 
"Has a flea green leaves?"
 
"Not that I know of," said the dog.
 
"Come and look up here," said the tree. "There ... on my lowest branch ... just above your head ... is that a flea?"
 
The old dog stood on his hind-legs and blinked with his blind eyes:
 
"I can't see so far," he said. "But I have never been able to see the fleas on my own tail, so that doesn't mean anything."
 
Then he slunk away.
 
But, a little later, a thin voice came from the apple-tree's branch and said:
 
"I am not a flea. I am the mistletoe."
 
"Well, I'm no wiser," said the apple-tree.
 
"I'm a plant like yourself," said the voice. "I shall turn into a bush ... with roots and branches and flowers and leaves and all the rest of it."
 
"Then why don't you grow in the ground like us?" asked the crab-apple-tree.
 
"That happens not to be my nature," said the mistletoe.
 
"Then you have a nasty nature," said the apple-tree and shook herself furiously, so that her white blossoms trembled. "For I understand this much, that I shall have to feed you, you

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