and all the summer passed and another summer and still more. the beeches kept on growing steadily and at last grew right over the little oak's head.

"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, or else i shall die."

the beeches only laughed and went on growing. at last they met right over 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 his reward for bragging. i say it, though he is my own flesh and blood. but you must be careful now, you little beeches, or else i shall slap you on the head too."