“Keep your leaves to yourselves!” cried the oak. “You’re standing in my light; and that I can’t endure. I must have proper sunshine. Take your leaves away, else I shall die.”
The beeches only laughed and went on growing. At last, they met right above the little oak’s head and then he died.
“That was ill done!” roared the big oaks and shook their branches in anger.
But the old oak stood up for his foster-children.
“Serve him right!” he said. “That’s the reward of his bragging. I say it, although he is my own flesh and blood. But you must be careful now, you little beeches, for else I shall slap you on the head too.”
5
The years passed and the beeches kept on growing and gradually became slim young trees that reached right up among the old oak’s branches.
“You’re beginning to be rather intrusive for my taste,” said the old oak. “You had better try to grow a bit thicker and give up shooting into the air like that. Just look how your branches stick out. Bend them decently, as you see us do. How will you manage when a regular storm comes? Take it from me, the wind shakes the tree-tops finely! He has many a time come whistling through my old branches; and how do you think that you’ll come off, with that meagre display which you stick up in the air?”
“Every one grows in his own manner and we in ours,” replied the young beeches. “This is the way it’s done where we come from; and we dare say we are just as good as you.”
“That’s not a very polite remark to make to an old tree with moss on his branches,” said the oak. “I am beginning to regret that I was so good to you. If you have a scrap of honour in your composition, then have the kindness to move your leaves a little to one side. Last year, there were hardly any buds on my lower branches, all through your standing in my light.”