“The house near-by is receiving a coat of paint,” began the tree, “and it is trying to pretend it’s the only thing that was ever painted. It is very proud and disagreeable about it.
“If the house were receiving any other kind of a coat I wouldn’t be angry with it. I would never expect to have a coat of cloth or rubber for the rain or fur perhaps for the winter, but then I’m not a boy, a girl, a lady or a big man. I’m a tree, and the house is a house.”
“Perfectly true,” said the song sparrow, “I don’t wish to correct a thing you have said.”
“But a coat of paint is entirely different.”
“Entirely, chirp, chirp,” agreed the song sparrow. “I don’t suppose a girl or a boy, a lady or a big man would care for a coat of paint.”
“Whiz, whiz, I should say not,” whistled the wind.
“But the house,” continued the tree, “pretends it is very wonderful. It is trying to look so fresh and stuck-up.”
“You must forgive those things,” said the song sparrow, “as the paint makes the house behave like that.”
“That’s so,” said the tree. “I suppose I was a bit harsh. But you know my trunk was painted this spring, painted white, to protect me and to look after me. So, I didn’t like seeing the house act in such a proud fashion.”