"He has gradually become quite weak-minded," said the nearest poplar.
"Quite weak-minded ... quite weak-minded ... weak-minded," whispered the poplars along the avenue.
The blackbird was the first who had visited the willow-tree and he returned several times each year. One day he came in a great state of fright and asked if he might hide up there. There was a horrid boy who had been shooting at him all the morning with his air-gun:
"I am really preserved at this time of the year," he said. "But what does that brat of a boy care about that? And, if I must lose my life, I would rather be caught in a proper snare."
"I should have thought it would be better to be shot," said the willow-tree. "Then you're done with for good and all."
"I don't agree with you," said the blackbird. "While there's life there's hope. You can always hang on in the snare and struggle and feel that there may be a chance of escaping."
"Yes, indeed," said the willow-tree, pensively. "That's just my case. I also am caught in a trap and know that I must die soon, but I cling to life nevertheless. Well, I have now attained a blessed old age, as the wild rose said. If only I knew where all the dear creatures who grew in my top came from!"
"Well, I can tell you that," said the blackbird. "You may be sure that most of them come from me."
Then he described how fond he was of red berries of every kind. He resorted in particular to the garden of the manor-house, which was full of the nicest things. Then, when he sat and digested his food in the willow-tree, he usually left something behind him, something in the way of one seed or another.
"Is that true?" said the willow-tree. "Yes, of course it's true. So I really owe all my happiness to you!"