"Where am I to get sticks to put under my pot?" screamed the goodwife.
"Where, oh where, are we to get fuel in the winter?" sighed the old man.
"Where am I to stroll with my sweetheart in the spring?" asked the young one.
Then, when they had looked at the poor old trees for a bit, to see if there was anything to be done with them, they took their spades and mattocks and ran up the hills to where the heath began.
"You may as well save yourselves the trouble," said the heath. "I am not to be dug into."
"Alas, no!" sighed the wood; but she was so weak now that no one could hear what she said.
But they did not mind about that. They hewed and hewed right down through the hard shell. Then they carted earth into the holes and manured it; and then they planted some small trees. They tended them and put their faith in them and screened them against the east wind as well as they could.
And, year after year, the small trees grew. They stood like light, green spots in the middle of the black heather; and, when this had gone on for some time, a little bird came and built a nest in one of them.
"Hurrah!" shouted the men. "Now we've got a wood once more."
"No one can hold his own against men," said the heath. "The thing can't be helped. So we'll move on."