“Ah, little fir-tree,” they said: “what would you give for glories like these?”
And the poor, forlorn little fir-tree shook with sorrow to her very heart as she replied, “Ah, if I might be like that!”
“Too bad,” said the peaches, carelessly, and they went about their business, which was to hold their soft cheeks up toward the sun that he might kiss them till they blushed.
“Yes, too bad!” chattered the pears, not heeding what they were saying, as they swayed gently on their stems while they slowly ripened to a golden and rosy glow.
The poor little fir-tree shuddered at their cruel indifference, which was even harder to bear than their outright scorn.
And the shade-trees were just as bad.
And then autumn came. Oh, the triumphs of the trees then! The wonderful flaming banners of scarlet and gold that they flung out to dazzle all nature! The rich depths of bronze and crimson that lurked mysteriously in their thick foliage!
The little fir-tree marveled. “Is there no end to their magnificence?” she thought: “must I ever see more and more of these wonders that I may not share?”
And the poor little thing wept until her needles lay in a pool all around her feet. The willows down by the brook saw her and they wept in sympathy. The little fir-tree saw the weeping willows and she was grateful for their kind thought, but so saddened was she that she only wept more needles to the ground.
And the nut-trees! They shook their nuts in her very face, and taunted her afresh with her uselessness and her lack of beauty.