One day she said: "James, I would not have that willow in that corner.

The roots will get into the race.

It is the real basket willow, and if you cut it into stubs and stick them in the swamp, you can sell enough willow to buy all your baskets." I replied: "Grandmother, you forget that is my tree; I want it to drape that bare knoll.

The roots will run below the bed of the race.

The boys can get plenty of stubs at Flemming's." She only replied by a "humph!" and next day I discovered my tree had been sawed into pieces and planted in the swamp.