And the whole summer passed by, and another summer after that, and still more summers. The beeches went on growing, and at last quite overtopped the little oak.
"Keep your leaves to yourself," cried the oak; "you overshadow me, and that is what I can't endure. I must have plenty of sunshine. Take your leaves away or I perish."
The beeches only laughed and went on growing. At last they closed together over the little oak's head, and then he died.
"That was a horrid thing to do," a great oak called out, and shook his boughs in terror.
But the old oak took his foster-children under his protection.
"It serves him right," he said. "He is paid out for his boasting. I say it, though he is my own flesh and blood. But now you must behave yourselves, little beeches, or I will give you a clout on the head."
Years went by, and the beeches went on growing, and they grew till they were tall young trees, which reached up among the branches of the old oak.
"You begin to be rather pushing," the old tree said. "You should try to grow a little broader, and stop this shooting up into the air. Just see where your branches are soaring. Bend them properly, as you see us do. How will you be able to hold out when a regular storm comes? I assure you the wind gives one's head a good shaking. My old boughs have creaked many a time; and what do you think will become of the flimsy finery that you stick up in the air?"
