"You're beginning to be rather intrusive³ for my taste," said the old oak. "You should try to grow a bit thicker and stop this shooting into the air. 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 flimsy finery 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 daresay we are quite as good as you."

 

"That's not a polite remark to make to an old tree with moss⁴ on his branches," said the oak. "I am beginning to regret that I was so kind to you. If you have a scrap⁵ of honour in your composition, just have the goodness to move your leaves a little to one side. Last year, there were hardly any buds on my lower branches, all through your standing⁶ in my light."

 

"We can't quite see what that has to do with us," replied the beeches. "Every one has enough to do to look after himself. If he is industrious⁷ and successful, then things go well with him. If not, he must be content to go to the wall. Such is the way of the world."

 

And the oak's lower branches died and he began to be terribly frightened:

 

 

 

"You're nice fellows, you are!" he said. "The way you reward me for my hospitality! When you were little, I let you grow at my foot and sheltered you against the storm. I let the sun shine on you whenever he wanted to and I treated you as if you were my own children. And now you choke me, by way of thanks."

 

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