One branch died after the other and the storm broke them off and flung them to the ground. The old oak had now only a few leaves left in his top.
“The end is at hand,” he said, gravely.
But there were many more people in the land now than before and they hastened to cut down the oaks while there were still some left:
“Oak makes better timber than beech,” they said.
“So at last we get a little appreciation,” said the old oak. “But we shall have to pay for it with our lives.”
Then he said to the beech-trees:
“What was I thinking of, when I helped you on in your youth? What an old fool I have been! We oak-trees used to be lords of the land and now, year after year, I have had to see my brothers all around succumb in the struggle against you. I myself am almost done for and not one of my acorns has shot up, thanks to your shadow. But, before I die, I should like to know what you call your behaviour.”
“That’s soon said, old friend!” replied the beeches. “We call it competition and it’s no discovery of ours. It’s that which rules the world.”
“I don’t know those foreign words of yours,” said the oak. “I call it rank ingratitude.”
Then he died.