They stood and scolded and wept for some days. Then Dame Spring came for the last time through the wood. She had still the oaks and some other querulous old fellows to visit:
“Lie down nicely to sleep now in the ground,” she said to the anemones. “It is no use kicking against the pricks. Next year, I will come again and wake you to new life.”
And some of the anemones did as she told them. But others continued to stick their heads in the air and grew up so ugly and lanky that they were horrid to look at.
“Fie, for shame!” they cried to the beech-leaves. “It’s you that are killing us.”
But the beech shook his long boughs, so that the brown husks fell to the ground.
“Wait till the autumn, you little blockheads,” he said and laughed. “Then you’ll just see.”
The anemones could not understand what he meant. But, when they had stretched themselves as far as they could, they cracked in two and withered.
3
The summer was past and the farmer had carted his corn home from the field.
The wood was still green, but darker; and, in many places, yellow and red leaves appeared among the green ones. The sun was tired of his warm work during the summer and went early to bed.