"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."