But the queer thing persisted in saying nothing and the root meditated all through the winter and wondered what it could be.
Later, in the spring, the thing swelled out and grew ever so fat and, one day, a little sprout shot out of it.
"Good-morning!" said the root. "A merry spring-time to you! Perhaps you will now think fit to answer what I have been asking you these last six months: whom have I the honour of addressing?"
"I am the flowers' dream," replied the thing. "I am a seed and you are a blockhead."
The root pondered about this for some little time. He did not mind being called a blockhead, for, when you're a root, you have to submit to being abused. But he couldn't quite understand that remark about the flowers' dream and so he begged for a further explanation.
"I can feel that the ground is still too hard for me to break through," said the seed, "so I don't mind having a chat with you. You see, I was lying inside one of the flowers, when you others were squabbling with them in the summer, and I heard all that you said. I had a fine laugh at you, believe me; but I dared not join in the conversation: I was too green for that."
"Well, but, now that you are big, I suppose you're allowed to talk?" asked the root.
"Big enough not to care a fig for you!" replied the seed and, at the same time, shot a dear little root into the ground. "I have a root of my own now and need not submit to any of your impudence."
The old root opened his eyes very wide indeed, but said nothing.
"However, I prefer to treat you with civility," said the seed. "After all, in a manner of speaking, you're my father."