the winter passed and the spring came. up in the middle of the willow-tree's top peeped a little green sprout.
"hullo, who are you?" asked the willow-tree.
"i'm just a little dandelion," said the sprout. "i was in mother's head, with a heap of brothers and sisters. each of us had a little parachute. 'fly away now, darlings,' said mother. 'the farther away you go, the better. i can do no more for you than i have done; and i won't deny that i am a little concerned about all the children that i have brought into the world. but that can't be helped either; and i hope you will find a spot where an honest dandelion can shift for herself.'"
"yes, that's just how a little flower-mother talks," said the wild rose-bush.
"what then?" asked the willow-tree.
"then there came a gust of wind," said the dandelion. "we all flew up into the air together, carried by our parachutes. what became of the others i have no idea; but i remember it began to rain and then i was flung down here. of course, i thought that, when i had dried, i could fly on again. but not a bit of it, for my parachute was smashed. so i had to stay where i was. to my great surprise, i saw that i was lying on earth. gradually more earth came, in which i lay hidden all the winter; and now i have sprouted. that's the whole story."
"it's quite a romance," said the wild rose-bush.
"very likely," said the dandelion. "but what's going to happen to me in the future? honestly speaking, i would give a good deal to be down in the earth again."
"i'll do all i can for you," said the willow-tree. "i have known adversity myself; and it is a great honour and pleasure for me to have you growing in my poor head."
"very many thanks for your kindness," said the dandelion. "there's really not so much of it in the world that one shouldn't appreciate it when one meets with it. but, when all is said and done, it's ability that tells; and i fear that's where the shoe pinches."
"i know what you're thinking of," said the willow-tree, sadly. "i can't shade you, since the keeper cut off my nice crown. my long branches up there are all very well and i wouldn't be without them for anything, but they don't give any shade worth talking about and i shall never get another crown, that's quite clear. so you're afraid that the sun will shine too strong on you?"
"not in the least!" said the dandelion. "the more the sun shines on my yellow face, the better i'm pleased. no, look here, it's the earth i'm anxious about."
"and the most important thing too," said the oak. "but that's the willow-tree's business. if he wants to run an hotel for flowers in his head, he must provide earth: that goes without saying."
"yes, but is there no earth, my dear dandelion?" asked the willow-tree.
"there is," said the dandelion. "and good earth too: it's not that. i'm only afraid that there won't be enough of it. you must know, i have a terribly long root: quite a stake, i assure you. when i'm full-grown, there will be at least six inches of it down in the ground."
"upon my word!" said the oak. "to hear that brat of a dandelion talking about roots!"
the willow-tree stood for a while and said nothing, but thought all the more. the wild rose-bush comforted the dandelion and said nice things about the willow-tree; the elder-bush said it would be all right; the oak grumbled and asked whether, after all, one could expect much from a tree without a crown.
"now listen," said the willow-tree, who had paid no attention to the others. "i'll tell you something, my dear dandelion, which i don't generally care to talk about. you know i have had a bad time and have lost my crown?"
"i heard you say so," said the dandelion. "i can also see that you look rather cowed among the other trees in the avenue."
"don't talk about the poplars," said the willow-tree, distressfully. "they are my relations, but they have never forgiven me for being put here by mistake as a cutting. look at them and look at me and you can judge for yourself that such a monster as i must be a blot upon a stately avenue of poplars."
"he has some sense of shame left in him," said the nearest poplar.
and all the other trees of the avenue whispered their assent.
"you think about it too much," said the elder-bush. "the more one broods upon a thing, the worse it becomes. i should have died long ago, you know, if i had stood and cried at the losses i have suffered."
"yes, that's as may be," said the willow-tree. "we all take things in our own way and i in mine. i have not the least intention of throwing up the game, but i know that i am a cripple and shall never be anything else. i thought, a little time ago, that my branches up there would turn into a new crown, but that was sheer folly. they grow and strut and turn green and that is all they do. and then, besides, i feel that i am beginning to decay.
"what's that you say?" asked the wild rose-bush.
"are you decaying?" asked the oak.
"yes ... that's by far the worst thing of all," said the elder-bush.
"he's revealing his inmost secrets to the rabble," said the nearest poplar. "let us stand erect and stiff and whisper and look aloft, dear brothers of the avenue!"
all the poplars whispered.
"i am decaying," said the willow-tree. "i am decaying in my top. how could it be otherwise? there's a puddle up there in summer, the snow lies there in winter and now it's full of moist earth. i can plainly perceive that the hole is growing bigger and bigger, going deeper and deeper inside me. my wood is mouldering away. the shell is good enough still; and i am satisfied as long as it holds out. then the sap can run up from my roots to my dear, long twigs. well ... i was thinking the birds will come and visit me, as they are used to, and they will be sure to bring earth with them, so that there will always be more of it as my hole becomes deeper by degrees. and plenty of withered leaves fall on my poor maimed top. i also positively believe that i have an earth-worm up there. how he got there, i don't know: perhaps a bird dropped him out of his beak. but he draws the leaves down into the earth and eats them and turns them into mould. so i say, like the elder-bush, it will be all right."
"so you're becoming hollow?" asked the oak.
"i am," said the willow-tree. "it can't be helped. it's not quite the sort of thing to talk about, but it's different now, because the dandelion was so anxious. it shall never be said of me that i took a respectable flower as a boarder and then let her suffer mortal want."
"who ever heard a tree talk like that?" said the oak.
"well, i must say i agree with you this time," said the wild rose-bush.
"i don't think he will hold out very long now," said the elder-bush.
"thank you, you good old willow-tree," said the dandelion. "now i can go on growing hopefully. i have only this year to think of. when i have sent my seeds into the world with their little parachutes, i shall have done all that is expected of me. i should be delighted if one of them would stay here and grow on you."
"many thanks," said the willow-tree.
"he accepts the sympathy of the rose-bush and the elder ... he says thank-you to the dandelion ... and he's a relation of ours ... oh, shocking!" said the nearest poplar.
"shocking ... shocking ... shocking!" whispered the poplars along the avenue.
then evening came and night; and one and all slept. the wind had gone down, so that there was not even the least whisper in the poplars. but the oak on the little hillock in the fields called out to the willow-tree:
"pst!... pst!... willow-tree!... are you asleep?"
"i can't sleep," said the willow-tree. "it's rumbling and gnawing and trickling and seething inside me. i can feel it coming lower and lower. i don't know what it is, but it makes me so melancholy."
"you're becoming hollow," said the oak.
"perhaps that's what it is," said the willow-tree, sadly. "well, there's nothing to be done. what can't be cured must be endured."
"now listen to me, willow-tree," said the oak. "on the whole i don't like you."
"i don't know that i ever did you any harm," said the willow-tree.
"very likely," said the oak. "only i thought you so arrogant ever since the time when you came the cutting over us. but never mind that now. i have felt most awfully sorry for you since i heard that you were about to become hollow. take care, that's what i say. it's a terrible misfortune."
"i really don't know what to do to prevent it," said the willow-tree.
"no more do i," said the oak. "but i tell you for all that: take care. see if you can't get all the birds who visit you to scrape all the earth out of the hole in your head before it becomes too deep."
"i mustn't harm the dandelion," said the willow-tree. "besides, i don't think there's any danger yet. my twigs are green and thriving and my roots are sucking pretty well. as long as the root is sound, everything's sound: you know that as well as i do."
"take care, that's all," said the oak. "you don't know what it means, but i do. i may as well tell you, i have an old hollow uncle."
"have you?" said the willow-tree. "yes, there's a tragedy in every family. you have your uncle and the poplars have me."
"you've no idea of the sort of life he leads," said the oak. "he's awfully old and awfully hollow. yes, he's like you in a way, but ever so much worse. there's nothing left of him but a very thin shell and just a wretched twig or two in his top. almost all his roots are dead, too. and he's always full of owls and bats and other vermin. it's a terrible life he leads."
"i'm very sorry to hear it," said the willow-tree.
"i merely say, look out!" said the oak.
