on the ground, the grass gave no sound. He
shouted "Holloa!" but there was no echo. His voice seemed to slip away
from him, he could not shout so loud as he had been accustomed to. For a
minute he liked it; then he began to think it was not so pleasant; then
he wanted to get out, but he could not see the hill, so he did not know
which way to go.

So he stroked a knotted oak with his hand, smoothing it down, and said:
"Oak, oak, tell me which way to go!" and the oak tried to speak, but
there was no wind, and he could not, but he dropped just one leaf on
the right side, and Bevis picked it up, and as he did so, a nut-tree
bough brushed his cheek.

He kissed the bough, and said: "Nut-tree bough, nut-tree bough, tell me
the way to go!" The bough could not speak for the same reason that the
oak could not; but it bent down towards the streamlet. Bevis dropped on
one knee and lifted up a little water in the hollow of his hand, and
drank it, and asked which way to go.

The stream could not speak because there was no stone to splash against,
but it sparkled in the sunshine (as Bevis had pushed the bough aside),
and looked so pleasant that he followed it a little way, and then he
came to an open place with twisted old oaks, gnarled and knotted, where
a blue butterfly was playing.

"Show me the way out, you beautiful creature," said Bevis.

"So I will, Bevis dear," said the butterfly. "I have just come from your
waggon, and your papa and the bailiff have been calling to you, and I
think they will soon be coming back to look for you. Follow me, my
darling."

So Bevis followed the little blue butterfly, who danced along as
straight as it was possible for him to go, for he, like Bevis, did not
like too much straightness. Now the oak knew the butterfly was there,
and that was why he dropped his leaf; and so did the nut-tree bough, and
that was why he drooped and let the sun sparkle on the water, and the
stream smiled to make Bevis follow him to where the butterfly was
playing. Without pausing anywhere, but just zig-zagging on, the blue
butterfly floated before Bevis, who danced after him, the nuts falling
from his crammed pockets; knocking every oak as he went with his stick,
asking them if they knew anything, or had anything to tell the people in
the copse near his house. The oaks were bursting with things to tell
him, and messages to send, but they could not speak, as there was no
breeze in the hollow. He whipped the bramble