but this was where the old oak was wrong, for they did come.

in the autumn, the bear returned and lay down under the old oak:

"i am to give you the kind regards of the people down below there," he said and picked some funny things off his shaggy coat. "just look what i've got for you."

"what's that?" asked the oak.

"that's beech," replied the bear. "beech-seed, as i promised you."

then he trampled the seed into the earth and prepared to leave again:

"it's a pity i can't stay to see how annoyed you will be," he said, "but those dashed human beings have become so troublesome. they killed my wife and one of my brothers the other day and i must look out for a place where i can dwell in peace. there is hardly a spot left for an honest bear to live in. good-bye, you gnarled old oak-trees!"

when the bear had jogged off, the trees looked at one another seriously:

"let's see what happens," said the old oak.

and, when the spring came, the grass was green and the birds began to sing where they last left off. the flowers swarmed up from the ground and everything looked fresh and vigorous.

the oaks alone still stood with leafless branches:

"it is very distinguished to come last," they said to one another. "the king of the forest does not arrive before the whole company is assembled."

but at last they did arrive. all the leaves burst forth from the fat buds and the trees looked at one another and complimented one another on their good appearance. the little oak had grown a decent bit. this made him feel important and think that he now had a right to join in the conversation:

"there's not much coming of the bear's beech-trees," he said, mockingly, but at the same time glanced up anxiously at the old oak who used to slap his head.

the old oak heard what he said and so did the others. but they said nothing. none of them had forgotten what the bear had said and, every morning, when the sun shone, they peeped down stealthily to see if the beeches had come. at bottom, they were a little uneasy, but they were too proud to talk about it.

and, one day, at last, the little sprouts shot up from the ground. the sun shone upon them and the rain fell over them, so that it was not long before they grew to a good height.

"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 may shine on you better?" asked the old tree, politely.

"much obliged," replied the beeches, "but we can grow quite nicely in the shade."