now it so happened that the squire and his wife went to italy and stayed there for a couple of years. and this, in its turn, led to the result that the polled willow was left to stand in peace among the proud poplars. when the master and mistress were away, there was no one who gave a further thought to the stately avenue.

throughout the winter, the willow stood silent and perplexed. and it is quite natural that a tree should not care to talk when his head is chopped off. but, half-way through march, suddenly one day he fell a-moaning in the most piteous fashion:

"oh, my head, my head!" he cried.

"well, i never in all my born days heard the like," said the oak. "listen to him talking about his head, when all the world can see that it's been chopped off, so that there's nothing but a wretched stump left."

"it's all very well for you to talk," said the willow-tree. "i should like to see you in my place. all my crown is gone, all the big branches and the little twigs, on which the next year's buds used to sit so nicely, each in its axil. but i still have all my roots, all those which i procured when i had a big household and many to provide for. now the ice on the ground is melting and the sun shining and the roots are sucking and sucking. all the sap is going up through my trunk and rising to my head. and i haven't the slightest use for it.... oh, oh!... i'm bursting, i'm dying!"

"poor willow-tree!" said the rose-bush.

but round on the other side of the little hillock stood an elder-bush, whom no one talked to, as a rule, and who never put in his oar:

"just wait and see," he said. "two or three days will put things right. only listen to what a poor, but honest elder-bush tells you. things always end by settling themselves in one way or another."

"yes, you've experienced a bit of life," said the oak.

"goodness knows i have!" said the elder. "they have cut me and cropped me and chopped me and slashed at me in every direction. but, every time they curtailed me on one side, i shot out on the other. it will be just like that with the willow-tree. he comes of a tough family too."

"do you hear that?" said the nearest poplar. "the elder-bush is comparing his family with ours! let's pretend not to hear him. we'll stand erect and whisper."

"we'll stand erect and whisper ... whisper ... stand erect and whisper," whispered the poplars along the avenue.

"what are those funny little things up in the willow-tree's top?" said the oak. "just look ... he's swelling, right up there ... it's a regular eruption.... if only we don't catch it!"

"oh dear no, those are buds!" said the willow-tree. "i can't understand it, but i can feel it. they are real live buds. i am turning green again, i am getting a new crown."

then came the busiest time of the year, when every one had enough to do minding his own affairs and had no time to think about the poor willow-tree.

the stately poplars and the humble elder got new leaves. the grass shot up green beside the ditch, the corn grew in the fields, the wild rose-bush put forth her dainty leaves, so that the flowers should look their best when they arrived in july. violets and anemones blossomed and died, daisies and pansies, dandelions and wild chervil and parsley: oh, it was a swarming and a delight on every hand! the birds sang as they had never sung before, the frogs croaked in the marsh, the snake lay on the stone fence, basking his black body in the sun.

the only one who did not join in was the oak. he was distrustful by nature and nothing would persuade him to come out until he saw that all the others were green. therefore he stood and peered from one to the other and therefore he was the first to discover what was happening to the willow-tree:

"look! look!" he cried.

they all looked across and saw that the willow-tree was standing with quite a lot of charming, green, long, lithe twigs, which shot straight up and waved their green and pretty leaves. all the twigs stood in a circle at the top of the polled trunk and were so straight that no poplar need have been ashamed to own them.

"what did i tell you?" said the elder-bush, who stood quite full of dark-green leaves.

"now i have a crown again," said the willow-tree. "even though it's not so smart as the old one, it's a crown, as nobody can deny."

"no," said the wild rose. "that's true enough. besides, one can live very happily without a crown. i have none and never had one and enjoy just as much honour and esteem without it."

"if i may say so, one's crown is only an inconvenience," said the elder-bush. "i had one myself once, but am much more contented since they took it away; and i can shoot my branches as it suits me."

"that's not my way of thinking," said the willow-tree. "i am a tree; and a tree must have a crown. if i had never got a crown, i should certainly have died of sorrow and shame."

"there's poplar-blood in him after all," said the nearest poplar. the others whispered their assent along the avenue.

"let us now see what happens," said the oak.