"It's a flea, it's a flea!" cried the dog. "There's no doubt about it. Just rub yourself up against me, old Apple-Tree! It's only fair that I should make you a return for your kindness."
"What does a flea look like?" asked the apple-tree.
"We-ell," said the dog and rubbed himself. "They're that sort of chaps, you know, that one really never has time to see them."
"Has a flea green leaves?"
"Not that I know of," said the dog.
"Come and look up here," said the tree. "There ... on my lowest branch ... just above your head ... is that a flea?"
The old dog stood on his hind-legs and blinked with his blind eyes:
"I can't see so far," he said. "But I have never been able to see the fleas on my own tail, so that doesn't mean anything."
Then he slunk away.
But, a little later, a thin voice came from the apple-tree's branch and said: