"The root is right! You must make yourselves useful, that's what we say too. We are tired of carrying you."
And they creaked loudly to emphasize their remarks.
"Fair and softly, you black root!" whispered the leaves. "And, if you were not so consequential, you long branches, you would not shout loud, for, after all, it's annoying to have people find out what dunces you are. Do you imagine that we have not our task as well as you?"
"Let's hear, let's hear!" said the branches, drawing themselves up.
"Let's hear about it!" said the root, making himself as stiff as he could.
"Now don't you know that it's we who prepare the food?" whispered the leaves. "Do you imagine that decent folk can eat it raw, just as the root takes it out of the ground and sends it up through the branches? No, it has to come up to us first; and, when we receive it, we light a fire and cook away in the sun's rays until it's all ready and fit to eat. Do you call that being no use?"
"We-ell!" said the branches, creaking in an embarrassed sort of fashion. "There may be something in that."
They began to explain it to the root, who had not quite understood, and he also thought that it sounded very reasonable.
A little later, the leaves began to whisper again: