now there were many others who went quite off their heads when they saw that the anemones were out. there was a schoolboy who wanted to have his summer holidays then and there and then there was the beech, who was most offended.
“aren’t you coming to me soon, dame spring?” he said. “i am a much more important person than those silly anemones and really i can no longer control my buds.”
“i’m coming, i’m coming!” replied dame spring. “but you must give me a little time.”
she went on through the wood. and, at every step, more anemones appeared. they stood in thick bevies round the roots of the beech and bashfully bowed their round heads to the ground.
“look up freely,” said dame spring, “and rejoice in heaven’s bright sun. your lives are but short, so you must enjoy them while they last.”
the anemones did as she told them. they stretched themselves and spread their white petals to every side and drank as much sunshine as they could. they knocked their heads against one another and wound their stalks together and laughed and were constantly happy.
“now i can wait no longer,” said the beech and came into leaf.
leaf after leaf crept out of its green covering and spread out and fluttered in the wind. the whole green crown arched itself like a mighty roof above the ground.
“good heavens, is it evening so soon?” asked the anemones, who thought that it had turned quite dark.
the summer was past and the farmer had carted his corn home from the field.
the wood was still green, but darker; and, in many places, yellow and red leaves appeared among the green ones. the sun was tired of his warm work during the summer and went early to bed.
at night, the winter stole through the trees to see if his time would soon come. when he found a flower, he kissed her politely and said:
“well, well, are you there still? i am glad to see you. stay where you are. i am a harmless old man and wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
but the flower shuddered with his kiss and the bright dew-drops that hung from her petals froze to ice at the same moment.
the winter went oftener and oftener through the wood. he breathed upon the leaves, so that they turned yellow, or upon the ground, so that it grew hard.
even the anemones, who lay down below in the earth and waited for dame spring to come again as she had promised, could feel his breath and shuddered right down to their roots.
“oh dear, how cold it is!” they said to one another. “how ever shall we last through the winter? we are sure to die before it is over.”
“now my time has come,” said the winter. “now i need no longer steal round like a thief in the night. from to-morrow i shall look everybody straight in the face and bite his nose and make his eyes run with tears.”
at night the storm broke loose.
“let me see you make a clean sweep of things,” said the winter.
and the storm obeyed his orders. he tore howling through the wood and shook the branches so that they creaked and broke. any that were at all decayed fell down and those that held on had to twist and turn to every side.
“away with all that finery!” howled the storm and tore off the leaves. “this is no time to deck one’s self out. soon there will be snow on the branches: that’s another story.”
all the leaves fell terrified to the ground, but the storm did not let them be in peace. he took them by the waist and waltzed with them over the field, high up in the air and into the wood again, swept them together into great heaps and scattered them once more to every side, just as the fit seized him.
not until the morning did the storm grow weary and go down.
“now you can have peace for this time,” he said. “i am going down till we have our spring-cleaning. then we can have another dance, if there are any of you left by that time.”
and then the leaves went to rest and lay like a thick carpet over the whole earth.
the anemones felt that it had grown delightfully warm.
“i wonder if dame spring can have come yet?” they asked one another.
“i haven’t got my buds ready!” cried one of them.
“no more have i! no more have i!” exclaimed the others in chorus.
but one of them took courage and just peeped out above the ground.
“good-morning!” cried the withered beech-leaves. “it’s rather too early, little missie: if only you don’t come to any harm!”
“isn’t that dame spring?” asked the anemone.
“not just yet,” replied the beech-leaves. “it’s we, the green leaves you were so angry with in the summer. now we have lost our green color and have not much left to make a show of. we have enjoyed our youth and danced, i may tell you. and now we are lying here and protecting all the little flowers in the ground against the winter.”
“and meanwhile i am standing and freezing with my bare branches,” said the beech, crossly.
the anemones talked about it down in the earth and thought it very nice.
“those dear beech-leaves!” they said.
“mind you remember it next summer, when i come into leaf,” said the beech.
“we will, we will!” whispered the anemones.
for that sort of thing is promised; but the promise is never kept.
