A low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and
tree to its foundation.

"Oh, dear!" sighed the tree. "Oh, the cruel gardener, to send this
wind! It will surely uproot me!"

The tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored
the gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. The flowers at
its feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over
the struggling, tempest-tost tree.

"They do not moan, as I do. They cannot be suffering as I am," said
the tree, catching its breath at every word.

"They do not need the tempest. The rain and the dew are all they
want," said a vine, which had been running many years over an old dead
oak, once the pride of the garden. "I heard the gardener say this very
afternoon," continued the vine, "that you must be rooted more firmly;
and he has sent this wind for that purpose."

"I wonder if _I_ am the only thing in this garden that needs shaking,"
spoke the oak, somewhat indignantly. "There's a poor willow over by
the pond that is always weeping and--"

"But," interrupted the vine, "that's what keeps the beautiful sheet of
water full to the brim, and always so sparkling,--the constant dropping
of her tears; and we ought to render her gratitude. Besides, she is so
graceful--"

"Oh, yes: all the trees are lovely but me. I heard the gardener's