They were a beautiful blue, not
like any other blue, not like the violets in the garden, or the sky over
the trees, or the geranium in the grass, or the bird's-eyes by the path.
He loved them and held them tight in his hand, and went on, leaving the
red pimpernel wide open to the dry air behind him, but the May-weed was
everywhere. The May-weed had white flowers like a moon-daisy, but not so
large, and leaves like moss. He could not walk without stepping on these
mossy tufts, though he did not want to hurt them. So he stooped and
stroked the moss-like leaves and said, "I do not want to hurt you, but
you grow so thick I cannot help it." In a minute afterwards as he was
walking he heard a quick rush, and saw the wheat-ears sway this way and
that as if a puff of wind had struck them.
Guido stood still and his eyes opened very wide, he had forgotten to cut
a stick to fight with: he watched the wheat-ears sway, and could see them
move for some distance, and he did not know what it was. Perhaps it was a
wild boar or a yellow lion, or some creature no one had ever seen; he
would not go back, but he wished he had cut a nice stick. Just then a
swallow swooped down and came flying over the wheat so close that Guido
almost felt the flutter of his wings, and as he passed he whispered to
Guido that it was only a hare.
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