“For a grain I’ve lost,” said the Elf.
“There’s a Barley grain under that loose sod,” remarked the Dormouse.
“That’s not it, thank you,” said the Elf-man. And he went on hunting; but he had no success. It was ever so deep down.
A good many days went by, and several things happened,—rain, and wind, and sunshine, and more rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again.
They all came down to where the little grain lay underground; and its nice brown cloak did not remain smooth and dry. It became damp and sodden and dirty. Its appearance was certainly not improved.
Now, if you got all wet and cold while you were asleep, supposing the wind and rain blew in on you, it would wake you up, most likely. So it fell out to the little grain of Wheat.
It woke up one day, inside its wet ragged cloak, and thrust out its small white feet. They were not like your feet, they were more like little roots—but they did very well for the Wheat. Its legs grew longer, week by week, and it grew more and more awake every day.
The more it waked, the less it liked being down there in the dark and cold. It thought, “Really, I can’t stay here all my life! There’s nothing to look at!”
But whenever it wanted to poke its head up and peep out, the wind made it shiver and feel miserable. So it stayed where it was, and tried to be contented. One can always try, anyhow.