somewhere in the wood, quite close to one another, lived a little company of good friends.

there was the sheep's-scabious, who looked as if she had something on her head, but had not, and the bell-flower, who was so blue and modest. there was the maiden-pink, meeker and redder and gentler than any, and a few blades of grass, who were nice and green, but poor and quite grateful if one as much as looked at them. then there was some moss, which grew on the old stump of a tree and kept to itself, and there was the hazel-bush, who was the finest of them all, both because he was so big and, especially, because the linnet had built his nest in him.

the friends never had a word.

they all minded their own business and did not stand in one another's way. in the evening, when the day's work was done, they listened to the linnet's song. or else there would be a creaking in the hazel-bush's branches; and that was quite as uncanny as a regular ghost-story. or else the blades of grass would just whisper softly and nonsensically; but that also is nice to listen to sometimes when you are tired and have nothing on your conscience.

if anything joyful happened to any one of the friends, they all rejoiced. when the maiden-pink and the bell-flower budded, the hazel-bush offered his congratulations, the linnet struck his longest trill and the blades of grass appointed a deputation and bowed respectfully to the ground and each shed a dewy tear of emotion. when the little linnets crept out of the egg, all the friends were as happy as if they themselves had had children.

from out of the wood came the whistling and singing of many birds, but this did not concern the friends. sometimes a roe would come bounding or a fox sneaking along; and once a frightened hare hid under the hazel-bush, while the guns banged all around and the dogs gave tongue. they would talk about an event like this for days together. but then they lapsed into quietude again; and time wore on to summer.