The king strode into the palace garden with a plan. "This old oak will come down," he announced. "In its place I shall have a marble fountain, the finest in the land."
The gardener set down her tools and faced him. "Your Majesty," she said, "the tree must stay. I am certain of it." She did not hesitate, and she did not offer three timid maybes. She had one clear answer — and two good reasons.
"First, this tree is the life of the whole garden. Its shade keeps the roses from burning in July; its branches hold the nests of the songbirds you love; its roots draw up the water that feeds every flower-bed you see. Remove it, and the garden dies with it. Last summer the Duke felled his own oak — and within a year his gardens were bare and brown."
"Second, this tree is older than your crown. Your grandfather was crowned beneath it, in its shade, before the whole court. Cut it down, and you cut away the memory of your own house."
The king was silent for a long moment. Then he smiled. "The fountain can wait," he said. "The oak stays." And the gardener, who had known her own mind from her very first word, simply picked up her tools and returned to her work.