THE BUCKWHEAT





Down by the river were fields of barley and rye and golden oats. Wheat

grew there, too, and the heaviest and richest ears bent lowest, in

humility. Opposite the corn was a field of buckwheat, but the buckwheat

never bent; it held its head proud and stiff on the stem.



The wise old willow-tree by the river looked down on the fields, and

thought his thoughts.



One day a dreadful storm came. The field-flowers folded their leaves

together, and bowed their heads. But the buckwheat stood straight and

proud.



"Bend your head, as we do," called the field-flowers.



"I have no need to," said the buckwheat.



"Bend your head, as we do!" warned the golden wheat-ears; "the angel of

the storm is coming; he will strike you down."



"I will not bend my head," said the buckwheat.



Then the old willow-tree spoke: "Close your flowers and bend your leaves.

Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even men cannot do

that; the sight of heaven would strike them blind. Much less can we who

are so inferior to them!"



"'Inferior,' indeed!" said the buckwheat. "Now I _will_ look!" And he

looked straight up, while the lightning flashed across the sky.



When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the wheat raised their

drooping heads, clean and refreshed in the pure, sweet air. The

willow-tree shook the gentle drops from its leaves.



But the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, scorched black by the

lightning.





THE BROWN THRUSH THE BUGLE SONG facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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