“How careless the trees are of their poor children!” said Miss Carmichael, affecting sympathy for the leaves.
“Pardon me,” said Donal, “if I grudge them your pity: there is nothing more of children in those leaves than there is in the hair that falls on the barber’s floor.”
“It is not very gracious to pull a lady up so sharply!” returned Miss Carmichael, still smiling: “I spoke poetically.”
“There is no poetry in what is not true,” rejoined Donal. “Those are not the children of the tree.”
“Of course,” said Miss Carmichael, a little surprised to find their foils crossed already, “a tree has no children! but—”
“A tree no children!” exclaimed Donal. “What then are all those beech-nuts under the leaves? Are they not the children of the tree?”
“Yes; and lost like the leaves!” sighed Miss Carmichael.
“Why do you say they are lost? They must fulfil the end for which they were made, and if so, they cannot be lost.”
“For what end were they made?”
“I do not know. If they all grew up, they would be a good deal in the way.”