In his dream he could interpret the language of the birds, and
therefore he understood to some extent what the bird was singing.
And it sang:

Mud, mud, mud, mud here! We'll throw, throw, throw here! In mud,
mud, mud you died, From mud, mud, mud you'll rise.

It sang of mud, death, and resurrection; that much he could make
out.

But that was not all. He was standing alone on the cliff in the
scorching heat of the sun. All his fellows-in-misfortune had forsaken
him and threatened his life, because he had refused to be a party
to their setting the prison on fire. They followed him in a crowd,
threw stones at him and chased him up the mountain as far as he
could go.

And finally he was stopped by a stone wall.

There was no possibility of climbing over it, and in his despair
he resolved to kill himself by dashing his head against the stones.
He rushed down the mountain, and behold! a gate was opened at the
same moment--a green garden gate ... and ... he woke up.

When he thought of his life and realised that the green wood was
nothing but the branch of a birch tree, he grew very discontented
in his heart.

"If at least it had been a lime tree," he grumbled. And as he