The Open Air | Page 9

"Ever so many times, when the oak the lightning struck was young,"
said the Wheat, "great stags used to come out of the wood and feed on
the green wheat; it was early in the morning when they came. Such
great stags, and so proud, and yet so timid, the least thing made them
go bound, bound, bound."
"Oh, I know!" said Guido; "I saw some jump over the fence in the
forest--I am going there again soon. If I take my bow I will shoot one!"
"But there are no deer here now," said the Wheat; "they have been gone

a long, long time; though I think your papa has one of their antlers,"
"Now, how did you know that?" said Guido; "you have never been to
our house, and you cannot see in from here because the fir copse is in
the way; how do you find out these things?"
"Oh!" said the Wheat, laughing, "we have lots of ways of finding out
things. Don't you remember the swallow that swooped down and told
you not to be frightened at the hare? The swallow has his nest at your
house, and he often flies by your windows and looks in, and he told me.
The birds tell us lots of things, and all about what is over the sea."
"But that is not a story," said Guido.
"Once upon a time," said the Wheat, "when the oak the lightning struck
was alive, your papa's papa's papa, ever so much farther back than that,
had all the fields round here, all that you can see from Acre Hill. And
do you know it happened that in time every one of them was lost or
sold, and your family, Guido dear, were homeless--no house, no garden
or orchard, and no dogs or guns, or anything jolly. One day the papa
that was then came along the road with his little Guido, and they were
beggars, dear, and had no place to sleep, and they slept all night in the
wheat in this very field close to where the hawthorn bush grows
now--where you picked the May flowers, you know, my love. They
slept there all the summer night, and the fern owls flew to and fro, and
the bats and crickets chirped, and the stars shone faintly, as if they were
made pale by the heat. The poor papa never had a house, but that little
Guido lived to grow up a great man, and he worked so hard, and he was
so clever, and every one loved him, which was the best of all things. He
bought this very field and then another, and another, and got such a lot
of the old fields back again, and the goldfinches sang for joy, and so
did the larks and the thrushes, because they said what a kind man he
was. Then his son got some more of them, till at last your papa bought
ever so many more. But we often talk about the little boy who slept in
the wheat in this field, which was his father's father's field. If only the
wheat then could have helped him, and been kind to him, you may be
sure it would. We love you so much we like to see the very crumbs left
by the men who do the hoeing when they eat their crusts; we wish they
could have more to eat, but we like to see their crumbs, which you
know are made of wheat, so that we have done them some good at
least."

"That's not a story," said Guido.
"There's a gold coin here somewhere," said the Wheat, "such a pretty
one, it would make a capital button for your jacket, dear, or for your
mamma; that is all any sort of money is good for; I wish all the coins
were made into buttons for little Guido."
"Where is it?" said Guido.
"I can't exactly tell where it is," said the Wheat. "It was very near me
once, and I thought the next thunder's rain would wash it down into the
streamlet--it has been here ever so long, it came here first just after the
oak the lightning split died. And it has been rolled about by the ploughs
ever since, and no one has ever seen it; I thought it must go into the
ditch at last, but when the men came to hoe one of them knocked it
back, and then another kicked it along--it was covered with earth--and
then, one day, a rook came and split the clod open with his bill, and
pushed the pieces first one side and then the other, and the coin went
one way, but I did not see; I must ask a humble-bee, or a mouse, or a