It was a beautiful, fruitful season. Rain and sunshine came by turns
just as it was best for the corn. As soon as ever the farmer began to
think that things were rather dry, you might depend upon it that next
day it would rain. And when he thought that he had had rain enough,
the clouds broke at once, just as if they were under his command.
So the farmer was in good humour, and he did not grumble as he
usually does. He looked pleased and cheerful as he walked over the
field with his two boys.
“It will be a splendid harvest this year,” he said. “I shall have my
barns full, and shall make a pretty penny. And then Jack and Will
shall have some new trousers, and I’ll let them come with me to
market.”
“If you don’t cut me soon, farmer, I shall sprawl on the ground,”
said the rye, and she bowed her heavy ear quite down towards the
earth.
The farmer could not hear her talking, but he could see what was in
her mind, and so he went home to fetch his scythe.
“It is a good thing to be in the service of man,” said the rye. “I
can be quite sure that all my grain will be cared for. Most of it
will go to the mill: not that that proceeding is so very enjoyable,
but it will be made into beautiful new bread, and one must put up
with something for the sake of honour. The rest the farmer will save,
and sow next year in his field.”
At the side of the field, along the hedge, and the bank above the
ditch, stood the weeds. There were dense clumps of them--thistle and
burdock, poppy and harebell, and dandelion; and all their heads were
full of seed. It had been a fruitful year for them also, for the sun
shines and the rain falls just as much on the poor weed as on the
rich corn.
“No one comes and mows _us_ down and carries us to a barn,” said the
dandelion, and he shook his head, but very cautiously, so that the
seeds should not fall before their time. “But what will become of all
our children?”
“It gives me a headache to think of it,” said the poppy. “Here I
stand with hundreds and hundreds of seeds in my head, and I haven’t
the faintest idea where I shall drop them.”
“Let us ask the rye to advise us,” answered the burdock.
And so they asked the rye what they should do.
“When one is well off, one had better not meddle with other people’s
business,” answered the rye. “I will give you only one piece of
advice: take care you don’t throw your stupid seed on to the field,
for then you will have to settle accounts with _me_.”
This advice did not help the wild flowers at all, and the whole day
they stood pondering what they should do. When the sun set they shut
up their petals and went to sleep; but the whole night through they
were dreaming about their seed, and next morning they had found a
plan.
The poppy was the first to wake. She cautiously opened some little
trap-doors at the top of her head, so that the sun could shine right
in on the seeds. Then she called to the morning breeze, who was
running and playing along the hedge.
“Little breeze,” she said, in friendly tones, “will you do me a
service?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the breeze. “I shall be glad to have something to
do.”
“It is the merest trifle,” said the poppy. “All I want of you is to
give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds may fly out of the
trap-doors.”
“All right,” said the breeze.
And the seeds flew out in all directions. The stalk snapped, it is
true; but the poppy did not mind about that.
“Good-bye,” said the breeze, and would have run on farther.
“Wait a moment,” said the poppy. “Promise me first that you will not
tell the others, else they might get hold of the same idea, and then
there would be less room for my seeds.”
“I am mute as the grave,” answered the breeze, running off.
“Ho! ho!” said the harebell. “Haven’t you time to do me a little,
tiny service?”
“Well,” said the breeze, “what is it?”
“I merely wanted to ask you to give me a little shake,” said the
harebell. “I have opened some trap-doors in my head, and I should
like to have my seed sent a good way off into the world. But you
mustn’t tell the others, or else they might think of doing the same
thing.”
“Oh! of course not,” said the breeze, laughing. “I shall be as dumb
as a stone wall.” And then she gave the flower a good shake and went
on her way.
“Little breeze, little breeze,” called the dandelion, “whither away
so fast?”
“Is there something the matter with you too?” asked the breeze.
“Nothing at all,” answered the dandelion. “Only I should like a few
words with you.”
“Be quick then,” said the breeze, “for I am thinking seriously of
lying down and having a rest.”
“You cannot help seeing,” said the dandelion, “what trouble we are in
this year to get all our seeds put out in the world; for, of course,
one wishes to do what one can for one’s children. What is to happen
to the harebell and the poppy and the poor burdock I really don’t
know. But the thistle and I have put our heads together, and we have
hit on a plan. Only we must have you to help us.”
“That makes _four_ of them,” thought the breeze, and she could not
help laughing out loud.
“What are you laughing at?” asked the dandelion. “I saw you
whispering just now to the harebell and poppy; but if you breathe a
word to them, I won’t tell you anything.”
“Why, of course not,” said the breeze. “I am mute as a fish. What is
it you want?”
“We have set up a pretty little umbrella on the top of our seeds. It
is the sweetest little plaything imaginable. If you will only blow a
little on me, the seeds will fly into the air and fall down wherever
you please. Will you do so?”
“Certainly,” said the breeze.
And hush! it went over the thistle and the dandelion and carried all
the seeds with it into the cornfield.
The burdock still stood and pondered. Its head was rather thick, and
that was why it waited so long. But in the evening a hare leapt over
the hedge.
“Hide me! Save me!” he cried. “The farmer’s dog Trusty is after me.”
“You can creep behind the hedge,” said the burdock, “then I will hide
you.”
“You don’t look able to do that,” said the hare, “but in time of need
one must help oneself as one can.” And so he got in safely behind the
hedge.
“Now you may repay me by taking some of my seeds with you over into
the cornfield,” said the burdock; and it broke off some of its many
heads and fixed them on the hare.
A little later Trusty came trotting up to the hedge.
“Here’s the dog,” whispered the burdock, and with one spring the hare
leapt over the hedge and into the rye.
“Haven’t you seen the hare, burdock?” asked Trusty. “I see I have
grown too old to go hunting. I am quite blind in one eye, and I have
completely lost my scent.”
“Yes, I have seen him,” answered the burdock; “and if you will do me
a service, I will show you where he is.”
Trusty agreed, and the burdock fastened some heads on his back, and
said to him:
“If you will only rub yourself against the stile there in the
cornfield, my seeds will fall off. But you must not look for the hare
there, for a little while ago I saw him run into the wood.” Trusty
dropped the burrs on the field and trotted to the wood.
“Well, I’ve sent my seeds out in the world all right,” said the
burdock, laughing as if much pleased with itself; “but it is
impossible to say what will become of the thistle and the dandelion
and the harebell and the poppy.”
Spring had come round once more, and the rye stood high already.
“We are pretty well off on the whole,” said the rye plants. “Here we
stand in a great company, and not one of us but belongs to our own
noble family. And we don’t get in each other’s way in the very least.
It is a grand thing to be in the service of man.”
But one fine day a crowd of little poppies, and thistles and
dandelions, and burdocks and harebells poked up their heads above
ground, all amongst the flourishing rye.
“What does _this_ mean?” asked the rye. “Where in the world are _you_
sprung from?”
And the poppy looked at the harebell and asked: “Where did _you_ come
from?”
And the thistle looked at the burdock and asked: “Where in the world
have _you_ come from?”
They were all equally astonished, and it was an hour before they had
explained. But the rye was the angriest, and when she had heard all
about Trusty and the hare and the breeze she grew quite wild.
“Don’t be in such a passion, you green rye,” said the breeze, who had
been lying behind the hedge and hearing everything. “I ask no one’s
permission, but do as I like; and now I’m going to make you bow to
me.”
Then she passed over the young rye, and the thin blades swayed
backwards and forwards.
“You see,” she said, “the farmer attends to his rye, because that is
_his_ business. But the rain and the sun and I--we attend to all of
you without respect of persons. To our eyes the poor weed is just as
pretty as the rich corn.”
(Abridged.)