“No,” replied Mrs. Fig, “I don’t think there were any pepper trees in the garden at all.”
Then you should have seen how angry Mrs. Pepper grew and I did wish that Grandma Liveoak would hurry and say something so there would be peace; but sure as you live, when she spoke her voice sounded strange and very dignified, and she only said:
“The other trees may have family histories too, Mrs. Fig, if they chose to boast of them!”
“A poet once said,” began Mr. Pine.
But Mrs. Orange Tree interrupted him to ask what they were saying about her; that she heard “best and prettiest leaves” mentioned.
Mrs. Fig told the story all over again, and I wanted to explain to her that I had never heard it just that way; but her stubby branches were standing very firm and determined, and I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good.
“Poets,” said Mr. Pine, “are the wisest people in the world, and one of them”—
“I don’t care a twig for the first man or the first woman,” said Mrs. Pepper crossly. “I know all the painters choose me, and they put my leaves and my clusters of white blossoms and red berries on paper and boards, and painters are the people of all the earth who know what is beautiful, so that proves the first place mine.”
“This poet once said of our family,” Mr. Pine began again.
“The brides all choose me,” cried Mrs. Orange, “and who in the world is so important as a bride? And if they choose me, I must be first and prettiest.”