Very often, after a violent
thunder-storm, a field of buckwheat appears blackened and singed, as if a flame
of fire had passed over it. The country people say that this appearance is
caused by lightning; but I will tell you what the sparrow says, and the sparrow
heard it from an old willow-tree which grew near a field of buckwheat, and is
there still. It is a large venerable tree, though a little crippled by age. The
trunk has been split, and out of the crevice grass and brambles grow. The tree
bends for-ward slightly, and the branches hang quite down to the ground just
like green hair. Corn grows in the surrounding fields, not only rye and barley,
but oats,—pretty oats that, when ripe, look like a number of little golden
canary-birds sitting on a bough. The corn has a smiling look and the heaviest
and richest ears bend their heads low as if in pious humility. Once there was
also a field of buckwheat, and this field was exactly opposite to old
willow-tree. The buckwheat did not bend like the other grain, but erected its
head proudly and stiffly on the stem. “I am as valuable as any other corn,” said
he, “and I am much handsomer; my flowers are as beautiful as the bloom of the
apple blossom, and it is a pleasure to look at us. Do you know of anything
prettier than we are, you old willow-tree?”
And the willow-tree nodded his head, as if he would say, “Indeed I do.”
But the buckwheat spread itself out with pride, and said, “Stupid tree; he is so old that grass grows out of his body.”
There arose a very terrible storm. All the field-flowers folded their leaves together, or bowed their little heads, while the storm passed over them, but the buckwheat stood erect in its pride. “Bend your head as we do,” said the flowers.
“I have no occasion to do so,” replied the buckwheat.
“Bend your head as we do,” cried the ears of corn; “the angel of the storm is coming; his wings spread from the sky above to the earth beneath. He will strike you down before you can cry for mercy.”
“But I will not bend my head,” said the buckwheat.
“Close your flowers and bend your leaves,” said the old
willow-tree. “Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts; even men
cannot do that. In a flash of lightning heaven opens, and we can look in; but
the sight will strike even human beings blind. What then must happen to us, who
only grow out of the earth, and are so inferior to them, if we venture to do
so?”
“Inferior, indeed!” said the buckwheat. “Now I intend to have a peep into heaven.” Proudly and boldly he looked up, while the lightning flashed across the sky as if the whole world were in flames.
When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the corn raised their drooping heads in the pure still air, refreshed by the rain, but the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, burnt to blackness by the lightning. The branches of the old willow-tree rustled in the wind, and large water-drops fell from his green leaves as if the old willow were weeping. Then the sparrows asked why he was weeping, when all around him seemed so cheerful. “See,” they said, “how the sun shines, and the clouds float in the blue sky. Do you not smell the sweet perfume from flower and bush? Wherefore do you weep, old willow-tree?” Then the willow told them of the haughty pride of the buckwheat, and of the punishment which followed in consequence.
This is the story told me by the sparrows one evening when I begged them to relate some tale to me.
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