An Oak grew at the river's edge, broad and proud, and beside it stood a stand of slender Reeds. "How I pity you," said the Oak. "The lightest breath of wind sets you bowing and shivering. I have never bowed to anything."
"Do not pity us," the Reeds answered softly. "The wind passes over us and we are none the worse. We bend a little, and then we stand again."
That night a great storm came up the valley, howling.
The Reeds lay flat before it and let it roar over their heads. But the Oak set its whole strength against the gale — and stood, and stood, until with a groan its roots gave way, and it was torn from the bank and carried off down the flood. In the morning the Reeds rose again, dripping, into a washed and quiet sky.