The willow sighed, "Oh, how bad looks the blood on her breast!"
"Oh, you bad thing!" answered Robin. "When your wood burns, it will crackle and give out little heat."
Then she came to an alder and asked, "O Alder, is my painting becoming?"
The alder bowed quietly. "It is becoming, the blood of your breast."
"Ah, little sister," laughed Robin; "when people want color, they will get red dye from your bark. When you are dry, you will burn with a steady heat."
She next came to a cottonwood. "O Cottonwood, is my painting becoming?"
"Oh, how bad looks the blood of her breast!" murmured the cottonwood.
"Oh, you horrid thing! You shall have breaks in your side, and you will not burn well when you are dry."
Then she passed to the maple and asked, "O Maple, is my painting becoming?"
"Oh, how becoming is the blood of her breast!" nodded the maple.
"Ah, you are true, dear sister. Your bark shall be used for baskets, and people shall find them of great use."
