next year, it happened as the heath had said. the little oaks and beeches died as one tree. and now a terrible time came for the wood. the heath spread more and more; on every side there was heather instead of violets and anemones. none of the young trees grew up, the bushes withered, the old trees began to die in their tops, and it was a general calamity.

"it's no longer at all pleasant in the wood," said the nightingale. "i think i shall build somewhere else."

"why, there's hardly a decent tree left to live in!" said the crow.

"the ground has become so hard that it's no longer possible to dig one's self a proper hole and burrow," said the fox.

the wood was at her wits' end. the beech stretched his branches to the sky in an appeal for help and the oak wrung his in silent despair.

"sing your song once more!" said the heath.

"i have forgotten it," replied the wood, gloomily. "and my flowers are withered and my birds have flown away."

"then i will sing," said the heath.

and he sang:

"a goodly song round the moorland goes

when the sun in the east leaps clearer;

and like blood or fire the heather glows

as to autumn the woods draw nearer.

"all day on the moor will the cotton-grass

weave its white, long bands together;

and softly the snake and the adder pass

through the stems of the tufted heather.

"on swinging tussock the lapwing leaps,

lark's note above plover's swelling,

as the crook-backed cotter in silence creeps

from his lonely moorland dwelling."