ON the way home, Peasie added to her spoils. The little stream, now bubbling happily, brought her a web of fine cloth. On the fig tree she found waiting a rope of pearls, snagged from the turban of a passing prince. The bright little fire had baked hot cakes for her (‘Take them, Peasie’ it crackled pleasantly), and the plum tree bent its branches low so Peasie could pick all she wanted.

She shared the plums and hotcakes with her sister, but Beansie was sulky. ‘I’m sure’ suggested Peasie soothingly ‘that father would do as much for you.’ Beansie brightened at that; and next morning she hurried off along the road to her father’s house.

As she went, a plum tree asked her to tidy up his thorns; a roadside fire begged to be raked out; a fig complained of a broken branch; and a stream clogged by leaves and sticks wanted clearing out. ‘Every one for herself!’ was her only reply. ‘I won’t stay to help those who won’t help themselves.’