The willow-tree became more and more decayed and the hole filled with earth and more customers arrived. One spring there was a dainty little sprout, which the tree welcomed under the impression that it was a dandelion.
"Hullo!" said the sprout. "What do you think I am?"
"I have the highest opinion of you," said the willow-tree. "But you are still so small. May I ask your name?"
"I am a strawberry-plant," said the sprout. "And one of the best. My own idea is that I am the equal of those which grow in the manor-garden. Just wait till I get my fruit: then we shall see."
"Goodness me!" said the willow-tree. "If I could only understand where you came from!"
Another sprout came, which proved to be the beginning of a black-currant-bush. A third came, which grew into a dear little mountain-ash. Every summer there were a couple of dandelions. The bees came and buzzed and sucked honey and flew away with it to their hives. The butterflies flitted from flower to flower, sipped a little honey here and there and ate it up. They knew they had to die, so there was no reason for saving it.
"It's wonderful!" said the willow-tree. "If only I knew where all this good fortune comes from!"
"Never mind about that: just take it as it comes," said the elder-bush.
"You will have a fine old age," said the wild rose-bush.
"You're getting hollower and hollower," said the oak. "Remember what I told you about my poor old uncle."