And then they had beautiful white flowers, which they lifted high in the air, like parasols, whereas the real branches, that grew on the stubs, never got to look like anything but overgrown children and could put forth neither flowers nor fruit.
2
“Why, here’s quite a wood!” said the mouse, one evening, sitting under the foliage and peeping up with her bright eyes.
“We are the wood,” said the goat’s-foot.
“Pray take a look round,” said the parsley. “If you like us, build your nest in us. All that we can offer you is at your service.”
“Don’t believe them,” said the real bushes. “They only make a show while summer lasts. When autumn comes, they are gone without leaving a trace behind them.”
“I don’t know anything about autumn,” said the parsley.
“I don’t believe in autumn,” said the goat’s-foot. “It’s a cock-and-bull story with which they take in the baby bushes.”
“Autumn exists all right,” said the mouse. “And after that comes winter. Then the thing is to have one’s larder full. It’s well I thought of it. I think I will dig myself a little hole between the stones and begin laying up.”