[THE WHEAT-FIELD]
Some children were set to reap in a wheat-field. The wheat was yellow as gold, the sun shone gloriously, and the butterflies flew hither and thither. Some of the children worked better, and some worse; but there was one who ran here and there after the butterflies that fluttered about his head, and sang as he ran.
By and by evening came, and the Angel of the wheat-field called to the children and said, “Come now to the gate, and bring your sheaves with you.”
So the children came, bringing their sheaves. Some had great piles, laid close and even, so that they might carry more; some had theirs laid large and loose, so that they looked more than they were; but one, the child that had run to and fro after the butterflies, came empty-handed.
The Angel said to this child, “Where are your sheaves?”
The child hung his head. “I do not know!” he said. “I had some, but I have lost them, I know not how.”
“None enter here without sheaves,” said the Angel.
“I know that,” said the child. “But I thought I would like to see the place where the others were going; besides, they would not let me leave them.”