And so she did. Though she lived only on the edge of the red ditch, she spread out her leaves day by day, running here and there and yonder, hiding this red spot and that red spot, until by and by nothing could be seen but the beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did not stop until every ugly spot was hidden by her graceful garlands.
“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried the ivy; “only look!”
“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one sees it. What are you going to do now? Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross the ditch.”
“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy vine. “I shall keep on trying until I do. There is so much on the other side I can do to help make the earth-world beautiful. Surely there is a way to cross.”
So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here and there, searching everywhere for a way to cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing down to the edge of the muddy water, she reached a rock half way across, where she stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what next to do.
“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig tree. “I told you so! You might as well make up your mind to dry up and stop trying.”
“I shall never stop trying,” called back the ivy vine. “There is a way to cross all ditches, and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.”
“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of the old oak tree close by. “Cling to my roots there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to help one like you; reach out and I will pull you up.”
So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung tightly to the twisted roots of the old oak, and was soon laughing merrily on the other side.
“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,” said the old oak. “I have been watching you across the ditch all these months, and you have changed its ugly, red banks into a real thing of beauty.