"Well, well, look here." Sneered the willow in his sneerish, whistley way. "Watch the old man of mountain blow his top!" He spat, displeased with the great boast and blabber. "It is I who should be the one monumented and acknowledged for my own great enlightenment!."
"You!?" Snorted the mountain, beginning to shake the earth with a deep and deadly chuckle.
"Yes, I. For who else has stood so straight and unshakable, with roots as deep and delved into the earth as mine?"
"And what is more unshakable then a mountain?" Was the retort.
The willow hesitated, and realized his choice of words could have been a bit more carefully chosen. Then a third voice was entered into the argument.
"Excuuuuuuse meeee?" The voice trilled out, and the attention was drawn to the brook that bubbled and spluttered until it ran out of sight. "I would think the someone with worrrrrdly experiance and a rrrrrefined sense of leadership would be chosen for this particular role. Someone firrrrrm and one who would not waver when all comes down to the quick of things."
The other two grumbled in agreement.
"So who do you propose?" Snapped the willow.
"Whhhhy, meeee of course!" Chirped the brook. "For none have seen the worrrrld as I have."
"Ha!" Scoffed the mountain. "Who ever heard of a brook being nominated for such an important thing as this. And while you might have dripped and dropped your way through the sewers and sinks of many a place, I most certiantly do NOT believe that you would be fitting for a circumstance of this sort. For behold! What does a noisy little nobody like you---so low to the ground, so shallow and single minded---know of higher things? You know nothing of the skies, and you run as fast as your currents will take you away from the points of altitude!"
This argument waged on and on. Through the evening, to the next morning, until day after day, they argued and argued. Moreover, it was a very irrational time for the three, and for many months nothing was decided.
Finally, the first chill of winter arrived. It brought fourth frost and snow, icicles and avalanches.
The mountain huffed and puffed and tried his hardest to blow those bothersome snowbanks off of his face (for it itched so), and time and time again he wished ever so much that he were a smaller, less significant portion of land onto which the snowfall did not gather.
The willow mourned over his fallen leaves. They had scattered by now, and he felt terribly bare and unclothed. It was all he could do now to shiver and sight at the ice that hung like silver glass in beads and spikes off of his limbs. In reality, the beauty of it was breathtaking, but he was so busy pouting over his lost boughs that he didn't notice the sparkles surrounding him.
The brook was equally dismayed. He didn't count on freezing over and turning to a ice patch. In addition to that, the children would go ice skating right on top of him---and oh! How it tickled!
By springtime, each was a more humbled part of nature.
The mountain's soil became less and less muddy and more and more rich until the wildflowers adorned him with their beautiful faces.
The willow began to bud and bloom, and soon he had delicate new green shoots running up and down his branches.
Finally, the brook dissolved and became a brook once more.
But something else happened to him as well. After all the melted snow and ice poured into his current, he became larger and swifter and stronger then ever.
And all at once it became clear: He was now a river.
The day came when he finally made it to the sea. And he lived there, often corresponding with his closest friends, the mountain and the willow, telling them the joy of the the sun and sand, and enjoying his pelagic lifestyle.
The End
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