Next year, it happened as the heath had said. The little oaks and died as one tree. And now a terrible time came for the wood. The heath spread more and more; on every side there was heather instead of violets and . None of the young trees grew up, the bushes , the old trees began to die in their tops, and it was a general .  
"It's no longer at all pleasant in the wood," said the nightingale. "I think I shall build somewhere else."
 
"Why, there's hardly a decent tree left to live in!" said the crow.
 
"The ground has become so hard that it's no longer possible to dig one's self a proper hole and burrow," said the fox.
 
The wood was at her wits' end. The stretched his branches to the sky in an appeal for help and the oak his in silent despair............