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.)
AUTUMN FIRES
In the other gardens And all up the vale From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail!