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Updated: May 10, 2025
He sat down under the crab-apple-tree to eat his lunch, but fell a-thinking in the middle of it, leant his head back against the trunk and looked up into the leaves. Suddenly he jumped up, dropped his sandwich and stared hard at the mistletoe. He took off his spectacles, wiped them on the skirt of his coat, put them back on his nose and went on staring.
But the poplars, stately and indignant as ever, still stand and whisper along the avenue. Just outside the fence of the keeper's garden stood a crab-apple-tree, with crooked branches and apples sour as vinegar. She had once stood in the middle of a thorn-thicket. But the thorns had died and rotted away; and now the apple-tree stood quite alone in a little green glade.
But, a little later, a thin voice came from the apple-tree's branch and said: "I am not a flea. I am the mistletoe." "Well, I'm no wiser," said the apple-tree. "I'm a plant like yourself," said the voice. "I shall turn into a bush ... with roots and branches and flowers and leaves and all the rest of it." "Then why don't you grow in the ground like us?" asked the crab-apple-tree.
Just think, over in England they simply can't keep Christmas without hanging a bunch of me from the ceiling. Then, when they dance and come under the bunch, they are allowed to kiss each other." "Pooh!" said the crab-apple-tree. "That's nothing to talk about. Why, there isn't an engaged couple in the whole parish but has sat in my shade and kissed."
He had lost all his teeth and could see only with one eye. He always stopped for a bit when he came to the crab-apple-tree and rubbed himself against her: "It's the fleas," said the dog. "Pray don't mind me in the least," replied the apple-tree. "We have known each other since the days when you were a puppy and the keeper used to thrash you with his whip when you wouldn't obey.
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