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 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 moss on his branches," said the oak. "i am beginning to regret that i was so kind to you. if you have a scrap 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 standing 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 industrious 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."

"fudge!" said the beeches. then they blossomed and put forth fruit; and, when the fruit was ripe, the wind shook their branches and scattered it all around.

"you are active people like myself," said the wind. "that's why i like you and will gladly give you a hand."

and the fox rolled at the foot of the beech and filled his coat with the prickly fruit and ran all over the country with it. the bear did the same and moreover laughed at the old oak while he lay and rested in the shadow of the beech. the wood-mouse was delighted with the new food which she got and thought that beech-nuts tasted much better than acorns.

new little beeches shot up around and grew just as quickly as their parents and looked as green and happy as if they did not know what a bad conscience was.

and the old oak gazed out sadly over the forest. the bright-green beech-leaves peeped forth on every hand and the oaks sighed and told one another their troubles:

"they are taking our power from us," they said and shook themselves as well as they could for the beeches. "the land is no longer ours."

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 there had been 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 in the land; and now, year after year, i have had to see my brothers all around perish in the struggle against you. i myself am almost done for; and not one of my acorns has sprouted, thanks to your shade. but, before i die, i should like to know what you call your behaviour."

"that's soon said, old friend!" answered the beeches. "we call it competition; and it's no discovery of ours. it's what rules the world."

"i don't know those outlandish words of yours," said the oak. "i call it base ingratitude."

then he died.