"Why, of course we know they are not dead, unless they are cut down," they said.
The little man shuddered; then he began to wave his arms about wildly.
"Let them try to cut me down, I'll knock them down. I'll fall on them and crush their bones. I'll smash them like this stone!" Here he gave a stone that stood near by, such a tremendous whack that sparks flew out of it.
"Don't smash us, please, Mr Tree Man," said Lottchen trembling.
"No fear, little Miss Lottchen, no fear, you're a nice little thing, you are; one can see that to look at you. You would never cut me down, would you?"
"Why, of course not," said Lotty.
"I should not dream of such a thing either," said Trudel. "But may we ask who you are?" Trudel continued, "You are surely not a tree?"
"Well, it's like this," said the little man; "I'm a tree, and the tree's me!"
"I," said Trudel, correcting him, "would be more correct."
"Rubbish," said the little man, "Pedantic rot!—the tree's me, I repeat. Every tree has its gnome or elf; they used to call us dryads in old times; but nowadays people are getting so cock-sure of knowing everything, that they can't see what is going on right under their noses. Trees are never still," he continued; "they are always moving.