The Open Air | Page 8

you leave off, and why so
many of you are unhappy in body and mind, and all the misery is
because you have not got a spirit like the wheat, like us; you will not
agree, and you will not share, and you will hate each other, and you
will be so avaricious, and you will not touch the flowers, or go into the
sunshine (you would rather half of you died among the hard stones
first), and you will teach your children hum, hum, to follow in some
foolish course that has caused you all this unhappiness a thousand years,
and you will not have a spirit like us, and feel like us. Till you have a
spirit like us, and feel like us, you will never, never be happy. Lie still,
dear; the shadow of the oak is broad and will not move from you for a
long time yet."
"But perhaps Paul will come up to my house, and Percy and Morna."
"Look up in the oak very quietly, don't move, just open your eyes and
look," said the Wheat, who was very cunning. Guido looked and saw a
lovely little bird climbing up a branch. It was chequered, black and
white, like a very small magpie, only without such a long tail, and it
had a spot of red about its neck. It was a pied woodpecker, not the large
green woodpecker, but another kind. Guido saw it go round the branch,
and then some way up, and round again till it came to a place that
pleased it, and then the woodpecker struck the bark with its bill, tap-tap.
The sound was quite loud, ever so much more noise than such a tiny
bill seemed able to make. Tap-tap! If Guido had not been still so that
the bird had come close he would never have found it among the leaves.
Tap-tap! After it had picked out all the insects there, the woodpecker
flew away over the ashpoles of the copse.
"I should just like to stroke him," said Guido. "If I climbed up into the
oak perhaps he would come again, and I could catch him."
"No," said the Wheat, "he only comes once a day,"
"Then tell me stories," said Guido, imperiously.
"I will if I can," said the Wheat. "Once upon a time, when the oak the
lightning struck was still living, and when the wheat was green in this
very field, a man came staggering out of the wood, and walked out into

it. He had an iron helmet on, and he was wounded, and his blood
stained the green wheat red as he walked. He tried to get to the
streamlet, which was wider then, Guido dear, to drink, for he knew it
was there, but he could not reach it. He fell down and died in the green
wheat, dear, for he was very much hurt with a sharp spear, but more so
with hunger and thirst."
"I am so sorry," said Guido; "and now I look at you, why you are all
thirsty and dry, you nice old Wheat, and the ground is as dry as dry
under you; I will get you something to drink."
And down he scrambled into the ditch, setting his foot firm on a root,
for though he was so young, he knew how to get down to the water
without wetting his feet, or falling in, and how to climb up a tree, and
everything jolly. Guido dipped his hand in the streamlet, and flung the
water over the wheat, five or six good sprinklings till the drops hung on
the wheat-ears. Then he said, "Now you are better."
"Yes, dear, thank you, my love," said the Wheat, who was very pleased,
though of course the water was not enough to wet its roots. Still it was
pleasant, like a very little shower. Guido lay down on his chest this
time, with his elbows on the ground, propping his head up, and as he
now faced the wheat he could see in between the stalks.
"Lie still," said the Wheat, "the corncrake is not very far off, he has
come up here since your papa told the mowers to mow the meadow,
and very likely if you stay quiet you will see him. If you do not
understand all I say, never mind, dear; the sunshine is warm, but not
too warm in the shade, and we all love you, and want you to be as
happy as ever you can be."
"It is jolly to be quite hidden like this," said Guido. "No one could find
me; if Paul were to look all day he would never find me; even Papa
could not find me. Now go on and tell me stories."