The first pine to the second said:
‘My leaves are black, my branches red;
I stand upon this moor of mine,
A hoar, unconquerable pine.’
The second sniffed and answered: ‘Pooh!
I am as good a pine as you.’
‘Discourteous tree,’ the first replied,
‘The tempest in my boughs had cried,
The hunter slumbered in my shade,
A hundred years ere you were made.’
The second smiled as he returned:
‘I shall be here when you are burned.’
So far dissension ruled the pair,
Each turned on each a frowning air,
When flickering from the bank anigh,
A flight of martens met their eye.
Sometime their course they watched; and then—
They nodded off to sleep again.
[Picture: Three tramps]