“Very well,” said a wood-cutter, “you shall,” and he gave the trunk a great blow with his axe, and then another and another, until down it fell.
“You won’t be a mast,” he added, “never fear. Nothing so useful! You’re going to make paper, my friend.”
“What is paper?” asked the tree of the swallows as they darted to and fro over its branches.
“We don’t know,” they said, “but we’ll ask the sparrows.”
The sparrows, who knew, told the tree. “Paper,” they said, “is the white stuff that men read from. It used to be made from rags; but it’s made from trees now because it’s cheaper.”
“Then will people read me?” asked the tree.
“Yes,” said the sparrows.
The tree nearly fainted with rapture.
“But only for a few minutes,” added the sparrows. “You’re going to be newspaper paper, not book paper.”
“All the same,” said the tree, “I might have something worth reading on me, mightn’t I? Something beautiful or grand.”