it. He had an iron helmet on, and he was wounded, and his blood stained
the green wheat red as he walked. He tried to get to the streamlet, which
was wider then, Guido dear, to drink, for he knew it was there, but he
could not reach it. He fell down and died in the green wheat, dear, for
he was very much hurt with a sharp spear, but more so with hunger and
thirst."

"I am so sorry," said Guido; "and now I look at you, why you are all
thirsty and dry, you nice old Wheat, and the ground is as dry as dry
under you; I will get you something to drink."

And down he scrambled into the ditch, setting his foot firm on a root,
for though he was so young, he knew how to get down to the water without
wetting his feet, or falling in, and how to climb up a tree, and
everything jolly. Guido dipped his hand in the streamlet, and flung the
water over the wheat, five or six good sprinklings till the drops hung on
the wheat-ears. Then he said, "Now you are better."

"Yes, dear, thank you, my love," said the Wheat, who was very pleased,
though of course the water was not enough to wet its roots. Still it was
pleasant, like a very little shower. Guido lay down on his chest this
time, with his elbows on the ground, propping his head up, and as he now
faced the wheat he could see in between the stalks.

"Lie still," said the Wheat, "the corncrake is not very far off, he has
come up here since your papa told the mowers to mow the meadow, and very
likely if you stay quiet you will see him. If you do not understand all I
say, never mind, dear; the sunshine is warm, but not too warm in the
shade, and we all love you, and want you to be as happy as ever you can
be."