“Good-morning!” cried the withered beech-leaves. “It’s rather too early, little missie: if only you don’t come to any harm!”
“Isn’t that Dame Spring?” asked the anemone.
“Not just yet,” replied the beech-leaves. “It’s we, the green leaves you were so angry with in the summer. Now we have lost our green color and have not much left to make a show of. We have enjoyed our youth and danced, I may tell you. And now we are lying here and protecting all the little flowers in the ground against the winter.”
“And meanwhile I am standing and freezing with my bare branches,” said the beech, crossly.
The anemones talked about it down in the earth and thought it very nice.
“Those dear beech-leaves!” they said.
“Mind you remember it next summer, when I come into leaf,” said the beech.
“We will, we will!” whispered the anemones.
For that sort of thing is promised; but the promise is never kept.