“I say, how pretty they are!” said the great oaks and twisted their crooked branches still more, so as to see them better.
“You are welcome among us,” said the old oak and gave them a gracious nod. “You shall be my foster-children and have just as good a time as my own.”
“Thank you,” said the little beeches and not a word more.
But the little oak did not like the strange trees:
“It’s awful, the way you’re shooting up,” he said, in a vexed tone. “You’re already half as tall as I am. May I beg you to remember that I am much older than you and of a good family besides?”
The beeches laughed with their tiny little green leaves, but said nothing.
“Shall I bend my branches a little to one side, so that the sun can shine on you better?” asked the old tree, politely.
“Much obliged,” replied the beeches. “We can grow quite nicely in the shade.”
4
And all that summer passed and another summer and still more. The beeches went on growing steadily and at last grew right over the little oak’s head.