The Unkind Trees.
"You know it's ridiculous, and we mustn't put up with it any longer," said the Plane Tree. He wasn't called the Plane Tree because he was not good looking, but because he always spoke his mind.
"That's what I say," grumbled the Elm.
"To be sure," cried the Oak, in a deep, deep, deep voice—you would have fancied it came out of his boots. But I forgot: of course Oaks don't wear boots—but that does not signify.
The Aspen and the Sycamore sighed, and shook their leaves, and looked wise.
The Chestnut and the Beech whispered to one another, and waved their boughs indignantly.
"Yes," said the Poplar, a tall, straight, stiff tree, with a squeaky voice, "I do think it's a shame the Wood-cutters should be allowed to come here and cut us up whenever they choose. The Government, or the Parish, or the Local Authorities, or—or—somebody, ought to hinder them."
"Everybody encourages them to do it," said the Box Tree, angrily. The Box Tree was rather fond of fighting, and that's how he came by his name.
"I know what we ought to do," said the Birch, "Whip them."
"Chop them up," cried the Plane Tree, who was fond of carpentry.
The trees all fluttered their leaves. They were rather frightened at the ideas of the Birch and Plane.
"Well," growled the Oak. But he couldn't think of anything to say, so was obliged to stop.
The Ivy had not said a word, but listened to everything. Now she lifted up her head, and spoke—so softly that it seemed as if the summer wind was rustling through her leaves.
"I think," said the gentle Ivy—and though she spoke so sweetly, her voice could be heard by every tree—"I think when there are so many branches to spare, and when it is an improvement to the trees to be lopped and pruned a little bit, it is foolish to object. And when we know the poor wood-cutters make their living by cutting wood in the forest, and when poor children are often shivering in the winter for want of fire, it is selfish to grumble about a few fagots of wood."
There was a deep stillness. Not a word did any tree speak, till the Elm said, with a bit of a sneer, "Ivy does not know what she is talking about."
"She means well," said the Cedar, "but she does talk nonsense." "So she does," murmured some other trees.
Ivy hung her head, and heard with grief and displeasure that the very next wood-cutter who came through the forest should be chopped up, as an example. In the afternoon, Hans came along, singing gaily to himself. He looked about, and noticed some branches that might be cut off without spoiling the trees, for he loved the trees, and would not have hurt them for the world. But as he laid down his saw on his wooden horse, it was snatched by the Birch with its long arms, and he felt himself whipped up.
"Oh, oh, oh," cried Hans.
"Ho, ho, ho," cried the trees, maliciously.
Ivy covered herself with her own leaves, for she could not bear to see so sad a sight, and she cried. So Hans was cut up, and his poor children had nobody to earn any money to buy them food, for their mother was dead. And the wood-cutters were afraid to come near the forest, lest they should be served like Hans. And what happened? Why, there was nobody to prune the trees, and they grew so thick that their branches all got entangled and twisted, and they smothered one another.