"I know what we ought to do," said the Birch, "Whip them."
"Chop them up," cried the Plane Tree, who was fond of carpentry.
The trees all fluttered their leaves. They were rather frightened at the ideas of the Birch and Plane.
"Well," growled the Oak. But he couldn't think of anything to say, so was obliged to stop.
The Ivy had not said a word, but listened to everything. Now she lifted up her head, and spoke—so softly that it seemed as if the summer wind was rustling through her leaves.
"I think," said the gentle Ivy—and though she spoke so sweetly, her voice could be heard by every tree—"I think when there are so many branches to spare, and when it is an improvement to the trees to be lopped and pruned a little bit, it is foolish to object. And when we know the poor wood-cutters make their living by cutting wood in the forest, and when poor children are often shivering in the winter for want of fire, it is selfish to grumble about a few fagots of wood."
There was a deep stillness. Not a word did any tree speak, till the Elm said, with a bit of a sneer, "Ivy does not know what she is talking about."
"She means well," said the Cedar, "but she does talk nonsense." "So she does," murmured some other trees.
Ivy hung her head, and heard with grief and displeasure that the very next wood-cutter who came through the forest should be chopped up, as an example. In the afternoon, Hans came along, singing gaily to himself. He looked about, and noticed some branches that might be cut off without spoiling the trees, for he loved the trees, and would not have hurt them for the world. But as he laid down his saw on his wooden horse, it was snatched by the Birch with its long arms, and he felt himself whipped up.