"The whole avenue ... the whole avenue ... the whole avenue," whispered the poplars.
Then, one regular sunny summer's day, the squire came walking along. He took off his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat down in the shade of the willow:
"Thank you for your shade, you good Willow-Tree," he said. "Those confounded poplars stand there and strut and don't give as much shade as the back of my hand. I think I'll cut them all down and plant willows in their stead."
For that happened to be his mood that day.
"Did you hear the squire praise me?" said the willow-tree, when he had gone.
"Goodness gracious!" said the nearest poplar. "Did we hear him? It's a perfect scandal! He talked just like a common peasant. But, of course, that comes of marrying a kitchen-maid. It's the truest thing that ever was said, that birds of a feather fly together."
"Birds of a feather fly together ... fly together ... fly together ... together ... together," whispered the poplars all along the avenue.
The oak on the little hillock in the fields twisted his crooked branches with laughter. The wild rose, whose hips were already beginning to turn red, nodded to the willow-tree:
"Every one has his position in life," she said. "We have ours and the smart ones theirs. Now I wouldn't change with anybody."
"Still, one would like to give satisfaction in one's position," said the willow-tree and sighed!