“Prick him, thistle!” said the tall oak.
“I did and he struck me with his stick,” replied the thistle.
“Sting him, nettle!” said the oak.
“I did,” said the nettle, “and I came off no better than the thistle.”
In the corn, however, a glad whisper ran from one end of the field to the other.
“It is we ... it is we ... it is we ... it is we that reign in the land now.... We are good.... We are useful.... You are nothing but weeds.”
“Hear them, the cowardly dogs!” said the thistle.
“We can do nothing,” said the bluebell. “Why don’t you big trees fall down on him and crush him and his brood?”
“That’s a ticklish matter, falling down,” said the oak. “But have we not a king of the forest to protect us? Where is the lion?”