"Tree, why art thou always so sad and drooping? Am not I kind unto thee?" But it answered not—only as it grew on it drooped lower and lower, for it was a weeping willow.
The boy cast seed into the soft garden mould. When the time of flowers came, a strong, budding stalk stood there, with coarse, serrated leaves. Soon a full red poppy came forth, glorying in its gaudy dress. At its feet grew a purple violet, which no hand had planted or cherished.
It lived lovingly with the mosses, and with the frail flowers of the grass, not counting itself more excellent than they.
"Large poppy, why dost thou spread out thy scarlet robe so widely, and drink up all the sunbeams from my lowly violet?"
But the flaunting flower replied not to him who planted it. It even seemed to open its rich silk mantle still more broadly, as though it would have stifled its humble neighbors. Yet nothing hindered the fragrance of the meek violet.
The little child was troubled, and at the hour of sleep he spake to his mother of the tree that continually wept, and of the plant that overshadowed its neighbor. So she took
