Gottlieb could be stubborn, too. “Und I tell you die Birke don’t vant it. She don’t like it down here.”
“The other birch-tree is flourishing down here.”
“Dot makes nuttink out. Die Birke up dere she like vere she is. She like plenty sun.”
“This one grows in the shade.”
“Diese Birke don’t know nuttink about sun. She alvays grows im Schatten.”
“Well, the other one would like the shade if it had a chance. You bring it down here.”
The old man shook his head stubbornly and reached for the shears.
Bret was determined to have his own way. “Is it my tree or yours?”
“She is your tree—but she don’t like. You move her, she dies.”
“Bosh! You do as you’re told.”