"I am the heath," said the brown thing.
"I don't know you," said the wood, "and I don't like you: you are so ugly and black, you don't look like the field or the meadow or anything that I know. Can you bud into leaf? Can you blossom? Can you sing?"
"Indeed I can," said the heath. "In August, when your leaves begin to look dark and tired, my flowers will come out. Then I am purple, purple from end to end, and more beautiful than anything you have ever seen."
"You're a braggart!" said the wood; and the conversation dropped.
2
Next year, the heath had crept a little way down the hill, towards the wood. The wood saw this, but said nothing. She thought it beneath her dignity to talk to such an ugly fellow; but, in her heart of hearts, she was afraid. Then she made herself greener and prettier and looked as if there were nothing the matter.
But, every year, the heath came nearer. He had now covered all the hills and lay just outside the fence of the wood.
"Be off!" said the wood. "You annoy me. Take care you don't touch my fence!"
"I'm coming over your fence," said the heath. "I'm coming into you, to eat you up and destroy you."