But the branches of the tree stirred in the breeze.  A voice like the rustling of leaves whispered. “Think.”

“Think!” echoed the king sharply.  “About what?  Who are you?”

“The spirit of the tree, O king.  If you cut me down, I shall die.  Spare me, I beg you.”

But the king was thinking only of the fine new palace he would build.  “I’m sorry.  But it has been the fate of trees to be cut down since men first made axes.”

He signaled to his woodsmen.  But then the spirit of the tree whispered sadly to the king, “Wait.  I would ask a boon of you.”

"Speak."

“If you must chop me down, then I pray you, do not cut through my trunk in one great blow.  Cut me down slowly, carefully, branch by branch, root by root.”

“But—but will that not hurt you?  I shall not be so cruel, I promise.  My axmen shall be swift and sure.”

“Ah no, ah no! Cut me down as I’ve said, O king, slowly, carefully.”

The king shook his head in bewilderment.  “Why should you want something that can only bring you pain?”

The spirit of the tree sighed.  “O king, are your people not like your children to you?  Do you not care for them and wish them well?”

“Of course! But—“

“And would you not, if it came to that, give your life for them?”

“Yes, I—I would.  But what has that to do with—“

“Look around you, O king.  Do you see these saplings?  These are my people.  They are too small just now for you to cut them down.