the willow-tree in this story was just one of the middling sort. but he had a destiny; and that is how he came to find his way into print.

his destiny began with this, that one of the proud poplars who stood in the avenue leading to the manor-house was blown down in a terrible storm. he snapped right down at his roots; the stump was dug up; and it left a very ugly gap in the middle of the long row of trees. as soon as spring came, therefore, the keeper brought a cutting and stuck it where the old poplar used to stand, stamped down the ground firmly all around it and nodded to it:

"hurry, now, and shoot up," he said. "i know it's in your blood; and you have only to look down the road to see good examples for you to follow in growing."

now the man thought it was a poplar he had planted. but it was only a quite ordinary willow-twig, which he had taken by mistake, and, as time passed and the cutting grew up, this came to light.

"what a monster!" said the keeper. "we must pull this up again."

"let him be, now that he's there," said the squire.

for that happened to be his mood that day.

"shall we put up with him?" asked the poplars along the road.

they whispered about it for a long time; and, as no one knew how to get rid of him, they agreed to put up with him. after all, he belonged to the family, though not to the smart side of it.

"but let me see you make an effort and grow as straight as you're able," said the poplar who stood nearest to him. "you have found your way into much too fine a company, let me tell you. you would have done better beside a village-pond than in the avenue of a manor. but now the scandal is an accomplished fact and we must hush it up as best we may. the rest of us will shoot up and grow a bit straighter and thinner still; and then we'll hope that the quality will drive past without noticing you."

"i'll do my best," said the willow-tree.

in the fields close by, on a little hillock, stood an oak. on the hillock also grew a charming wild rose. they both heard what the trees of the avenue had said and the oak began to scoff at them:

"fancy caring to stand out there in the road!" he said. "i suppose you will want to be running up and down next, like those silly men and women? it was unkind and thoughtless of your mother to sow you out there. trees ought to grow together in a wood, if they are not as handsome and stately as i, who can stand alone."

"my mother didn't sow me at all," said the willow-tree.

"oh, lord preserve us!" said the oak. "so your mother didn't sow you at all, didn't she? perhaps the others weren't sown either? perhaps you just dropped down from the sky?"

"if you had eyes in your head, you would have seen that the keeper put me here," said the willow. "i am a cutting."

and all along the road the poplars whispered to one another:

"we are cuttings ... cuttings ... cuttings..."

it was a real avenue and a real adventure.

"you managed that very well," said the poplar who stood nearest to the willow-tree. "only go on as you've begun and we will forgive you for not being as smart as the rest of us."

"i'll do my best," replied the willow-tree.

the oak said nothing. he did not know what cuttings were, and did not want to commit himself or make a blunder. but, later on, in the evening, he whispered to the wild rose-bush:

"what was that rubbish he was talking about cuttings?"

"it's not rubbish at all," said the rose-bush. "it was right enough, what the willow said. i myself came out of a seed, like you, and i didn't see the keeper plant him either, for i happened to be busy with my buds that day. but i have some smart cousins up in the garden at the manor-house. they came out of cuttings. their scent is so sweet, their colours so bright and their blossoms so rich and full that one simply can't believe it. but they get no seed."

"what next!" said the oak.

"yes, i, too, would rather be the wild rose i am," said the rose-bush.