It was a beautiful, fruitful season. Rain and sunshine came by turns just as it was best for the corn. As soon as ever the farmer began to think that things were rather dry, you might depend upon it that next day it would rain. And when he thought that he had had rain enough, the clouds broke at once, just as if they were under his command.

 

So the farmer was in a good humour, and he did not grumble¹ as he usually does. He looked pleased and cheerful as he walked over the field with his two boys.

 

 

"It will be a splendid harvest this year," he said. "I shall have my barns full, and shall make a pretty penny. And then Jack² and Will shall have some new trousers, and I'll let them come with me to market."

 

"If you don't cut me soon, farmer, I shall sprawl³ on the ground," said the rye, and she bowed her heavy ear quite down towards the earth.

 

 

The farmer could not hear her talking, but he could see what was in her mind, and so he went home to fetch his scythe⁴.

 

"It is a good thing to be in the service of man," said the rye. "I can be quite sure that all my grain will be well cared for. Most of it will go to the mill: not that that proceeding⁵ is so very enjoyable, but in that way it will be made into beautiful new bread, and one must put up with something for the sake of honour. The rest the farmer will save, and sow next year in his field."

 

 

At the side of the field, along the hedge, and the bank above the ditch, stood the weeds. There were dense⁶ clumps⁷ of them—thistle and burdock, poppy and harebell, and dandelion; and all their heads were full of seed. It had been a fruitful year for them also, for the sun shines and the rain falls just as much on the poor weed as on the rich corn.

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