and I know it is true, that the cuckoo came and called all day till the
moon shone at night, and began again in the morning before the dew
had sparkled in the sunrise. The dew dries very soon on wheat, Guido
dear, because wheat is so dry; first the sunrise makes the tips of the
wheat ever so faintly rosy, then it grows yellow, then as the heat
increases it becomes white at noon, and golden in the afternoon, and
white again under the moonlight. Besides which wide shadows come
over from the clouds, and a wind always follows the shadow and waves
us, and every time we sway to and fro that alters our colour. A rough
wind gives us one tint, and heavy rain another, and we look different on
a cloudy day to what we do on a sunny one. All these colours changed
on us when the blackbird was whistling in the oak the lightning struck,
the fourth one backwards from me; and it makes me sad to think that
after four more oaks have gone, the same colours will come on the
wheat that will grow then. It is thinking about those past colours, and
songs, and leaves, and of the colours and the sunshine, and the songs,
and the leaves that will come in the future that makes to-day so much.
It makes to-day a thousand years long backwards, and a thousand years
long forwards, and makes the sun so warm, and the air so sweet, and
the butterflies so lovely, and the hum of the bees, and everything so
delicious. We cannot have enough of it."
"No, that we cannot," said Guido. "Go on, you talk so nice and low. I
feel sleepy and jolly. Talk away, old Wheat."
"Let me see," said the Wheat. "Once on a time while the men were
knocking us out of the ear on a floor with flails, which are sticks with
little hinges--"
"As if I did not know what a flail was!" said Guido. "I hit old John with
the flail, and Ma gave him a shilling not to be cross."
"While they were knocking us with the hard sticks," the Wheat went on,
"we heard them talking about a king who was shot with an arrow like
yours in the forest--it slipped from a tree, and went into him instead of
into the deer. And long before that the men came up the river--the
stream in the ditch there runs into the river--in rowing ships--how you
would like one to play in, Guido! For they were not like the ships now
which are machines, they were rowing ships--men's ships--and came
right up into the land ever so far, all along the river up to the place
where the stream in the ditch runs in; just where your papa took you in
the punt, and you got the waterlilies, the white ones."
"And wetted my sleeve right up my arm--oh, I know! I can row you,
old Wheat; I can row as well as my papa can."
"But since the rowing ships came, the ploughs have turned up this
ground a thousand times," said the Wheat; "and each time the furrows
smelt sweeter, and this year they smelt sweetest of all. The horses have
such glossy coats, and such fine manes, and they are so strong and
beautiful. They drew the ploughs along and made the ground give up
its sweetness and savour, and while they were doing it, the spiders in
the copse spun their silk along from the ashpoles, and the mist in the
morning weighed down their threads. It was so delicious to come out of
the clods as we pushed our green leaves up and felt the rain, and the
wind, and the warm sun. Then a little bird came in the copse and called,
'Sip-sip, sip, sip, sip,' such a sweet low song, and the larks ran along the
ground in between us, and there were bluebells in the copse, and
anemones; till by-and-by the sun made us yellow, and the blue flowers
that you have in your hand came out. I cannot tell you how many there
have been of these flowers since the oak was struck by the lightning, in
all the thousand years there must have been altogether--I cannot tell
you how many."
"Why didn't I pick them all?" said Guido.
"Do you know," said the Wheat, "we have thought so much more, and
felt so much more, since your people took us, and ploughed for us, and
sowed us, and reaped us. We are not like the same wheat we used to be
before your people touched us, when we grew wild, and there were
huge great things in the woods and marshes which I will
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