The Pomegranate Apple-Tree and Bramble

The quarrel in the garden had been going on since sunrise.

"Look at my red flowers," said the pomegranate tree. "Look at my shining fruit. I am the most beautiful tree in this garden."

"Look at my pink blossom," said the apple tree. "Look at my rosy apples. I am the most beautiful tree in this garden."

"I am!" "No, I am!" They shook their branches at each other until the leaves flew and the bees gave up and went home. Up and down the garden, nobody could hear a thing.

Just when the shouting was at its very loudest, something stirred in the neighbouring hedge. It was the bramble, a long grey tangle of thorns, and it lifted its scratchy head and looked down its nose at them both.

"Really, my dear friends," said the bramble, in its grandest and most boastful voice. "Do stop all this silly squabbling. Not in front of me, at least."