“Me too,” said Mrs. Two-Legs. “But that has nothing to do with it. We are obliged to move about to get the grass we want.”
Two-Legs said nothing for the moment.
He rose and went out into the rain, had a look at his animals and then came back again and sat down in his old place. The lion was roaring outside in the meadow.
“Did you hear him?” asked Mrs. Two-Legs.
Two-Legs nodded.
“Tell me,” he said, after a while, “where does the grass come from?”
“You know as well as I do,” she said. “We have often talked of how it scatters its seed and how the seed shoots up between the old withered blades when the rain comes.”
“Quite right,” said Two-Legs. “And why shouldn’t we collect the seed and sow it ourselves? Now, if we pull up all the old grass and take the seed of the kind which our animals like best, we ought to be able to make it grow much thicker. And then we could reap the seed again and sow it again and go on living in the same place year after year.”
“Oh, if we could only do that!” cried Mrs. Two-Legs and clapped her hands.