Then the wood trees broke into their soft spring greens.
“Look at me!” said a young maple, proudly; “is not my pale yellowy green as lovely as the pink and white of the fruit-trees?”
And gazing at the delicate shade of the tiny leaves, the little fir-tree admitted that it was.
“Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh, “if I could have that soft light green to wear, I wouldn’t ask for pink blossoms! But how I hate my old dull needles!”
The oaks and elms put out their young green also, and the feathery willows down by the brook waved young withes like fairy wands.
As every fresh beauty unfolded, the poor little fir-tree wept anew and wished the Tree-master had given her the like. But so engrossed were the trees in watching their own decorations that they paid small heed to the sad little fir-tree.
And then summer came. The fir-tree felt sure new beauties would come to the trees, and she almost hoped some wonderful change might come to her. But she watched and waited in vain.
The others, though! Ah, how they reveled in their happiness!
The fruit-trees fairly laughed aloud under their happiness of fruit! Saucy red cherries, crimson velvet peaches, mellow golden apples, dewy purple plums, everywhere a riot of color, fragrance, and sweetness!
How they boasted!