was alive, your papa's papa's papa, ever so much farther back than that,
had all the fields round here, all that you can see from Acre Hill. And
do you know it happened that in time every one of them was lost or sold,
and your family, Guido dear, were homeless--no house, no garden or
orchard, and no dogs or guns, or anything jolly. One day the papa that
was then came along the road with _his_ little Guido, and they were
beggars, dear, and had no place to sleep, and they slept all night in the
wheat in this very field close to where the hawthorn bush grows
now--where you picked the May flowers, you know, my love. They slept
there all the summer night, and the fern owls flew to and fro, and the
bats and crickets chirped, and the stars shone faintly, as if they were
made pale by the heat. The poor papa never had a house, but that little
Guido lived to grow up a great man, and he worked so hard, and he was so
clever, and every one loved him, which was the best of all things. He
bought this very field and then another, and another, and got such a lot
of the old fields back again, and the goldfinches sang for joy, and so
did the larks and the thrushes, because they said what a kind man he was.
Then his son got some more of them, till at last your papa bought ever so
many more. But we often talk about the little boy who slept in the wheat
in this field, which was his father's father's field. If only the wheat
then could have helped him, and been kind to him, you may be sure it
would. We love you so much we like to see the very crumbs left by the men
who do the hoeing when they eat their crusts; we wish they could have
more to eat, but we like to see their crumbs, which you know are made of
wheat, so that we have done them some good at least."

"That's not a story," said Guido.

"There's a gold coin here somewhere," said the Wheat, "such a pretty one,
it would make a capital button for your jacket, dear, or for your mamma;