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Then she heard a voice from the other side of the clod. It was the learned grain, who had fallen there when the farmer threw her out of his pouch.

“Don’t be angry,” it said, “I am here. We are all right so far. Perhaps, when they cover us with the earth, we shall be even nearer to each other than we are now.”

“Do you mean to say they will cover us with the earth?” asked the proud grain.

“Yes,” was the answer. “And there we shall lie in the dark, and the rain will moisten us, and the sun will warm us, until we grow larger and larger, and at last burst open!”

“Speak for yourself,” said the proud grain; “I shall do no such thing!”

But it all happened just as the learned grain had said, which showed what a wise grain it was, and how much it had found out just by thinking hard and remembering all it could.

Before the day was over, they were covered snugly up with the soft, fragrant, brown earth, and there they lay day after day.

One morning, when the proud grain wakened, it found itself wet through and through with rain which had fallen in the night, and the next day the sun shone down and warmed it so that it really began to be afraid that it would be obliged to grow too large for its skin, which felt a little tight for it already.

It said nothing of this to the learned grain, at first, because it was determined not to burst if it could help it; but after the same thing had happened a great many times, it found, one morning, that it really was swelling, and it felt obliged to tell the learned grain about it.

“Well,” it said, pettishly, “I suppose you will be glad to hear that you were right, I am going to burst. My skin is so tight now that it doesn’t fit me at all, and I know I can’t stand another warm shower like the last.”

“Oh!” said the learned grain, in a quiet way (really learned people always have a quiet way), “I knew I was right, or I shouldn’t have said so. I hope you don’t find it very uncomfortable. I think I myself shall burst by to-morrow.”

“Of course I find it uncomfortable,” said the proud grain. “Who wouldn’t find it uncomfortable, to be two or three sizes too small for one’s self! Pouf! Crack! There I go! I have split up all up my right side, and I must say it’s a relief.”

“Crack! Pouf! so have I,” said the learned grain. “Now we must begin to push up through the earth. I am sure my relation did that.”

“Well, I shouldn’t mind getting out into the air. It would be a change at least.”

So each of them began to push her way through the earth as strongly as she could, and, sure enough, it was not long before the proud grain actually found herself out in the world again, breathing the sweet air, under the blue sky, across which fleecy white clouds were drifting, and swift-winged, happy birds darting.

“It really is a lovely day,” were the first words the proud grain said. It couldn’t help it. The sunshine was so delightful, and the birds chirped and twittered so merrily in the bare branches, and, more wonderful than all, the great field was brown no longer, but was covered with millions of little, fresh green blades, which trembled and bent their frail bodies before the light wind.

“This is an improvement,” said the proud grain.

Then there was a little stir in the earth beside it, and up through the brown mould came the learned grain, fresh, bright, green, like the rest.

“I told you I was not a common grain of wheat,” said the proud one.

“You are not a grain of wheat at all now,” said the learned one, modestly. “You are a blade of wheat, and there are a great many others like you.”