The Oak and the Reeds

The story

Once, beside a clear flowing river, there grew a tall oak tree. Its trunk was thick and straight, and its branches spread out overhead like a great open umbrella, casting shade across the whole riverbank. Down in the shallow water grew a clump of slender reeds, swaying gently whenever the wind blew, looking as if the softest breeze might knock them flat. The oak looked down at them and laughed. "You're so thin, so soft — surely the smallest gust would blow you right over! Look at me. Not even the fiercest storm could shake a single branch of mine."

The reeds swayed gently and answered in their own time. "We are much smaller than you, it's true. When the wind comes, we simply bend with it, and once it has passed, we straighten up again — that's all." The oak lifted its crown even higher and said proudly, "Bending is what the weak do. I am the tallest, strongest tree on this whole riverbank. The sky itself could fall and I would still be standing. Why should I bow my head like you?" The reeds said nothing more, only swaying softly in the light breeze.

By evening the sky had darkened suddenly, thick clouds rolling in one after another, and the wind over the river grew stronger by the minute. The birds perched in the oak's branches flew off, one by one, to shelter in the distant woods. The reeds could feel that something in the wind had changed, and bent low, one clump after another, their tips nearly brushing the water. The oak, though, stood just as straight as before, gripping its branches tighter, as if daring the wind to try its worst.

That night, the storm truly arrived. It howled across the river, whipping up waves, and bent the trees on both banks nearly sideways. The reeds lay flat, clump pressed against clump, hugging the water's surface, letting the wind roar over their heads — and not one of them snapped. The oak, though, still held its thick trunk stiff and straight, straining against the storm again and again, trying to stand tall. Its branches thrashed and creaked, and little by little, the soaked earth around its roots began to loosen.

The wind grew fiercer still, rocking the oak's trunk back and forth, until at last, with a great crack, its thick roots gave way and tore free of the ground. The huge oak crashed down across the river, its branches scattering as it fell, landing right beside the bed of reeds. The storm kept howling on, but the reeds stayed low against the water, and not a single one had broken.

By morning the wind had died down and the rain had stopped. The reeds slowly straightened up, shook the raindrops from their tips, and swayed gently in the breeze just as they always had. The oak, lying on its side, blinked its eyes open and looked at the reeds standing there, unharmed. "I was so tall, so strong," it said quietly, "and in one night I was torn up by the roots. You're so thin and soft — how is it that not one of you broke?"

The reeds swayed gently and answered kindly. "You insisted on standing stiff and straight, fighting the storm head-on, and that is why you were torn up by the roots. We know we are small, so when the wind comes, we simply bend and let it pass over our heads — that is how we were able to stay right where we are." The river grew calm again, morning light spread across the water, and the reeds swayed softly, as if nodding gently to every breeze that passed.