Some time afterwards it happened one morning that Bevis was sitting on a haycock in the Home Field, eating a very large piece of cake, and thinking how extremely greedy the young rook was yonder across the meadow.  For he was as big and as black as his father and mother, who were with him; and yet he kept on cawing to them to stuff his beak with sweets.  Bevis, who had another large slice in his pocket, having stolen both of them from the cupboard just after breakfast, felt angry to see such greediness, and was going to get up to holloa at this ill-mannered rook, when he heard a grasshopper making some remarks close by the haycock.

“S — s,” said the grasshopper to a friend, “are you going down to the brook?  I am, in a minute, so soon as I have hopped round this haycock, for there will be a grand show there presently.  All the birds are going to bathe, as is their custom on Midsummer Day, and will be sure to appear in their best feathers.  It is true some of them have bathed already, as they have to leave early in the morning, having business elsewhere.  I spoke to the cricket just now on the subject, but he could not see that it was at all interesting.  He is very narrow-minded, as you know, and cannot see anything beyond the mound where he lives.  S — s.”

“S — s,” replied the other grasshopper; “I will certainly jump that way so soon as I have had a chat with my lady-love, who is waiting for me on the other side of the furrow.  S — s.”

“S — s, we shall meet by the drinking-place,” said the first grasshopper; and was just hopping off when Bevis asked him what the birds went down to bathe for.

“I’m sure I do not know,” said the grasshopper, speaking fast, for he was rather in a hurry to be gone, he never could stand still long together.  “All I can tell you is that on Midsummer Day every one of the birds has to go down to the brook and walk in and bathe; and it has been the law for so many, many years that no one can remember when it began.  They like it very much, because they can show off their fine feathers, which are just now in full colour; and if you like to go with me you will be sure to enjoy it.”

“So I will,” said Bevis, and he followed the grasshopper, who hopped so far at every step that he had to walk fast to keep up with him.  “But why do the birds do it?”

“Oh, I don’t know why,” said the grasshopper; “what is why?”

“I want to know,” said Bevis, “why do they do it?”

“Why?” repeated the grasshopper; “I never heard anybody say anything about that before.  There is always a great deal of talking going on, for the trees have nothing else to do but to gossip with each other; but they never ask why.”

After that they went on in silence a good way except that the grasshopper cried “S — s” to his friends in the grass as he passed, and said good-morning also to a mole who peeped out for a moment.

“Why don’t you hop straight?” said Bevis, presently.  “It seems to me that you hop first one side and then the other, and go in such a zig-zag fashion it will take us hours to reach the brook.”

“How very stupid you are,” said the grasshopper.  “If you go straight of course you can only see just what is under your feet, but if you go first this way and then that, then you see everything.  You are nearly as silly as the ants, who never see anything beautiful all their lives.  Be sure you have nothing to do with the ants, Bevis; they are a mean, wretched, miserly set, quite contemptible and beneath notice.  Now I go everywhere all round the field, and spend my time searching for lovely things; sometimes I find flowers, and sometimes the butterflies come down into the grass and tell me the news, and I am so fond of the sunshine, I sing to it all day long.  Tell me, now, is there anything so beautiful as the sunshine and the blue sky, and the green grass, and the velvet and blue and spotted butterflies, and the trees which cast such a pleasant shadow and talk so sweetly, and the brook which is always running?  I should like to listen to it for a thousand years.”

“I like you,” said Bevis; “jump into my hand, and I will carry you.”  He held his hand out flat, and in a second up sprang the grasshopper, and alighted on his palm, and told him the way to go, and thus they went together merrily.

“Are you sure the ants are so very stupid and wicked?” asked Bevis, when the grasshopper had guided him through a gateway into the meadow by the brook.

“Indeed I am.  It is true they declare that it is I who am wrong, and never lose a chance of chattering at me, because they are always laying up a store, and I wander about, laughing and singing.  But then you see, Bevis dear, they are quite demented, and so led away by their greedy, selfish wishes that they do not even know that there is a sun.  They say they cannot see it, and do not believe there is any sunshine, nor do they believe there are any stars.  Now I do not sing at night, but I always go where I can see a star.  I slept under a mushroom last night, and he told me he was pushing up as fast as he could before some one came and picked him to put on a gridiron.  I do not lay up any store, because I know I shall die when the summer ends, and what is the use of wealth then?  My store and my wealth is the sunshine, dear, and the blue sky, and the green grass, and the delicious brook who never ceases sing, sing, singing all day and night.  And all the things are fond of me, the grass and the flowers, and the birds, and the animals, all of them love me.  So you see I am richer than all the ants put together.”  “I would rather be you than an ant,” said Bevis.  “I think I shall take you home and put you under a glass-case on the mantelpiece.”

Off jumped the grasshopper in a moment, and fell so lightly on the grass it did not hurt him in the least, though it was as far as if Bevis had tumbled down out of the clouds.  Bevis tried to catch him, but he jumped so nimbly this way and that, and hopped to and fro, and lay down in the grass, so that his green coat could not be seen.  Bevis got quite hot trying to catch him, and seeing this, the grasshopper, much delighted, cried out:  “Are you not the stupid boy everybody is laughing at for letting the weasel go?  You will never catch the weasel.”

“I’ll stamp on you,” said Bevis, in a great rage.

“S — s,” called the grasshopper — who was frightened at this — to his friends, and in a minute there were twenty of them jumping all round in every direction, and as they were all just alike Bevis did not know which to run after.  When he looked up there was the brook close by, and the drinking-place where the birds were to meet and bathe.  It was a spot where the ground shelved gently down from the grass to the brook; the stream was very shallow and flowed over the sandy bottom with a gentle murmur.

He went down to the brook and stood on the bank, where it was high near a bush at the side of the drinking-place.  “Ah, dear little Sir Bevis!” whispered a reed, bending towards him as the wind blew, “please do not come any nearer, the bank is steep and treacherous, and hollow underneath where the water-rats run.  So do not lean over after the forget-me-nots — they are too far for you.  Sit down where you are, behind that little bush, and I will tell you all about the bathing.”  Bevis sat down and picked a June rose from a briar that trailed over the bush, and asked why the birds bathed.

“I do not know why,” said the reed.  “There is no why at all.  We have been listening to the brook, me and my family, for ever so many thousands of years, and though the brook has been talking and singing all that time, I never heard him ask why about anything.  And the great oak, where you went to sleep, has been there, goodness me, nobody can tell how long, and every one of his leaves (he has had millions of them) have all been talking, but not one of them ever asked why; nor does the sun, nor the stars which I see every night shining in the clear water down there, so that I am quite sure there is no why at all.

“But the birds come down to bathe every Midsummer Day, the goldfinches, and the sparrows, and the blackbirds, and the thrushes, and the swallows, and the wrens, and the robins, and almost every one of them, except two or three, whose great-grandfathers got into disgrace a long while ago.  The rooks do not come because they are thieves, and steal the mussels, nor the crows, who are a very bad lot; the swan does not come either, unless the brook is muddy after a storm.  The swan is so tired of seeing himself in the water that he quite hates it, and that is the reason he holds his neck so high, that he may not see more of himself than he can help.

“It is no use your asking the brook why they come, because even if he ever knew, he has forgotten.  For the brook, though he sparkles so bright in the sun, and is so clear and sweet, and looks so young, is really so very, very old that he has quite lost his memory, and cannot remember what was done yesterday.  He did not even know which way the moor-hen went just now, when I inquired, having a message to send to my relations by the osier-bed yonder.

“But I have heard the heron say — he is talkative sometimes at night when you are asleep, dear; he was down here this morning paddling about — that the birds in the beginning learnt to sing by listening to the brook, and perhaps that is the reason they pay him such deep respect.  Besides, everybody knows that according to an ancient prophecy which was delivered by the raven before he left this country, if only the birds can all bathe in the brook on Midsummer Day and hold their tongues, and not abuse one another or quarrel, they will be able to compose their differences, and ever afterwards live happily together.

“Then they could drive away the hawk, for there is only one hawk to ten thousand finches, and if they only marched shoulder to shoulder all together they could kill him with ease.  They could smother the cat even, by all coming down at once upon her, or they could carry up a stone and drop on her head; and as for the crow, that old coward, if he saw them coming he would take wing at once.  But as they cannot agree, the hawk, and the cat, and the crow do as they like.  For the chaffinches all fight one another, you heard them challenging, and saw them go to battle, and then when at last they leave off and are good fellows again, they all flock together and will have nothing to do with the goldfinches, or the blackbirds.  It is true the wood-pigeons, and the rooks, and the starlings, and the fieldfares and redwings are often about in the same field, but that is only because they eat the same things; if a hawk comes they all fly away from each other, and do not unite and fight him as they might do.

“But if once they could come down to the brook on Midsummer Day, and never quarrel, then, according to the prophecy I told you of, all this diversity would cease, and they would be able to do just as they pleased, and build three or four nests in the summer instead of one, and drive away and kill all the hawks, and crows, and cats.  They tried to do it, I can’t tell you how many years, but they could never succeed, for there was always a dispute about something, so at last they gave it up, and it was almost forgotten (for they came to the conclusion that it was no use to try), till last year, when the mole, the one that spoke to the grasshopper just now, reminded them of it.

“Now the reason the mole reminded them of it was because one day a hawk came down too quick for his wife (who was peeping out of doors), and snapped her up in a minute, so he bore the hawk a grudge, and set about to seek for vengeance.  And as he could not fly or get at the hawk he thought he would manage it through the other birds.  So one morning when the green woodpecker came down to pick up the ants with his tongue, the mole looked out and promised to show him where there was a capital feast, and to turn up the ground for him, if in return he would fly all round the forest and the fields, and cry shame on the birds for letting the hawk go on as he did when they could so easily prevent it, just by holding their tongues one day.

“This the woodpecker promised to do, and after he had feasted off he went, and having tapped on a tree to call attention, he began to cry shame upon them, and having a very loud voice he soon let them know his mind.  At which the birds resolved to try again, and, do you know, last year they very nearly succeeded.  For it rained hard all Midsummer Day, and when the birds came down to the brook they were so bedraggled, and benumbed, and cold, and unhappy, that they had nothing to say for themselves, but splashed about in silence, and everything would have happened just right had not a rook, chancing to pass over, accidentally dropped something he was carrying in his bill, which fell into the flags there.

“The starling forgot himself, and remarked he supposed it was an acorn; when the wood-pigeon called him a donkey, as the acorns were not yet ripe, nor large enough to eat; and the usual uproar began again.  But afterwards, when they talked it over, they said to each other that, as they had so nearly done it, it must be quite possible, and next year they would all hold their tongues as tight as wax, though the sun should drop out of the sky.  Now the hawk, of course, being so high up, circling round, saw and heard all this, and he was very much alarmed, as they had so nearly succeeded; and he greatly feared lest next year, what he had dreaded so long would come to pass, as the raven had foretold.

“So he flew down and took counsel of his ancient friend the weasel.  What they said I cannot tell you, nor has it been found out, but I have no doubt they made up something wicked between them, and it is greatly to be regretted that you let the weasel go, for the hawk, sharp as he is, is not very clever at anything new, and if he had not got the weasel to advise him I suspect he would not be much after all.  We shall see presently what they have contrived — I am much mistaken if they have not put their heads together for something.  Do you keep quite still, Bevis dear, when the birds come, and take care and not frighten them.”

“I will,” said Bevis; “I will be very quiet.”

“It is my turn to tell you a story now,” said a green flag waving to and fro in the brook.  “The reed has been talking too much.”

“No, it is my turn,” said a perch from the water under the bank.  Bevis leaned over a little, and could see the bars across his back and sides.

“Hold your tongue,” replied the flag; “you ate the roach this morning, whose silvery scales used to flash like a light under the water.”

“I will nibble you,” said the perch, very angry.  “I will teach you to tell tales.”

“I will ask the willow, he is a very old friend of mine, not to shake any more insects into the brook for you from his leaves,” replied the flag.

“It was not I who ate the roach,” said the perch; “it was the pike, Bevis dear.”

“Indeed it was not,” said the pike, coming forward a little from under some floating weeds, where he had been in hiding, so that Bevis could now see his long body.  “The perch says things that are not true.”

“You know you hate me,” said the perch; “because your great-great-grandfather swallowed mine in a rage, and my great-great-grandfather’s spines stuck in your great-great-grandfather’s throat and killed him.  And ever since then, Bevis dear, they have done nothing but tell tales against me.  I did not touch the roach; the pike wanted him, I know, for breakfast.”

“I deny it,” said the pike; “but if it was not the perch it was the rat.”

“That’s false,” said the rat; “I have only this minute come down to the brook.  If it was not the pike nor the perch, depend upon it it was the heron.”

“I am sure it was not the heron,” said a beautiful drake, who came swimming down the stream.  “I was here as early as any one, and I will not have my acquaintance the heron accused in his absence.  I assure you it was not the heron.”

“Well, who did it then?” said Bevis.

“The fact is,” said a frog on the verge of the stream, “they are all as bad as one another; the perch is a rogue and a thief; the pike is a monster of iniquity; the heron never misses a chance of gobbling up somebody; and as for the drake, for all his glossy neck and his innocent look, he is as ready to pick up anything as the rest.”

“Quack,” cried the drake in a temper; “quack.”

“Hush!” said a tench from the bottom of a deep hole under the bank — he was always a peacemaker.  “Hush! do stop the noise you are making.  If you would only lie quiet in the mud like me, how pleasant you would find life.”

“Bevis,” began the reed; “Bevis dear.  Ah, ah!” His voice died away, for as the sun got higher the wind fell, and the reed could only speak while the wind blew.  The flag laughed as the reed was silenced.

“You need not laugh,” said the perch; “you can only talk while the water waggles you.  The horse will come down to the brook to-morrow, and bite off your long green tip, and then you will not be able to start any more falsehoods about me.”

“The birds are coming,” said the frog.  “I should like to swim across to the other side, where I can see better, but I am afraid of the pike and the drake.  Bevis dear, fling that piece of dead stick at them.”

Bevis picked up the dead stick and flung it at the drake, who hastened off down the stream; the pike, startled at the splash, darted up the brook, and the frog swam over in a minute.  Then the birds began to come down to the drinking-place, where the shore shelved very gently, and the clear shallow water ran over the sandy bottom.  They were all in their very best and brightest feathers, and as the sun shone on them and they splashed the water and strutted about, Bevis thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

They did not all bathe, for some of them were specially permitted only to drink instead, but they all came, and all in their newest dresses.  So bright was the goldfinch’s wing, that the lark, though she did not dare speak, had no doubt she rouged.  The sparrow, brushed and neat, so quiet and subdued in his brown velvet, looked quite aristocratic among so much flaunting colour.  As for the blackbird, he had carefully washed himself in the spring before he came to bathe in the brook, and he glanced round with a bold and defiant air, as much as to say:  “There is not one of you who has so yellow a bill, and so beautiful a black coat as I have”.  In the bush the bullfinch, who did not care much to mix with the crowd, moved restlessly to and fro.  The robin looked all the time at Bevis, so anxious was he for admiration.  The wood-pigeon, very consequential, affected not to see the dove, whom Bevis longed to stroke, but could not, as he had promised the reed to keep still.

All this time the birds, though they glanced at one another, and those who were on good terms, like the chaffinch and the greenfinch, exchanged a nod, had not spoken a word, and the reed, as a puff came, whispered to Bevis that the prophecy would certainly come to pass, and they would all be as happy as ever they could be.  Why ever did they not make haste and fly away, now they had all bathed or sipped?  The truth was, they liked to be seen in their best feathers, and none of them could make up their minds to be the first to go home; so they strutted to and fro in the sunshine.  Bevis, in much excitement, could hardly refrain from telling them to go.

He looked up into the sky, and there was the hawk, almost up among the white clouds, soaring round and round, and watching all that was proceeding.  Almost before he could look down again a shadow went by, and a cuckoo flew along very low, just over the drinking-place.

“Cuckoo!” he cried, “cuckoo!  The goldfinch has the prettiest dress,” and off he went.

Now the hawk had bribed the cuckoo, who was his cousin, to do this, and the cuckoo was not at all unwilling, for he had an interest himself in keeping the birds divided, so he said that although he had made up his mind to go on his summer tour, leaving his children to be taken care of by the wagtail, he would stop a day or two longer, to manage this little business.  No sooner had the cuckoo said this, than there was a most terrible uproar, and all the birds cried out at once.  The blackbird was so disgusted that he flew straight off, chattering all across the field and up the hedge.  The bullfinch tossed his head, and asked the goldfinch to come up in the bush and see which was strongest.  The greenfinch and the chaffinch shrieked with derision; the wood-pigeon turned his back, and said “Pooh!” and went off with a clatter.  The sparrow flew to tell his mates on the house, and you could hear the chatter they made about it, right down at the brook.  But the wren screamed loudest of all, and said that the goldfinch was a painted impostor, and had not got half so much gold as the yellow-hammer.  So they were all scattered in a minute, and Bevis stood up.

“Ah!” said the reed, “I am very sorry.  It was the hawk’s doings, I am sure, and he was put up to the trick by the weasel, and now the birds will never agree, for every year they will remember this.  Is it not a pity they are so vain?  Bevis dear, you are going, I see.  Come down again, dear, when the wind blows stronger, and I will tell you another story.  Ah! ah!” he sighed; and was silent as the puff ceased.

Bevis, tired of sitting so long, went wandering up the brook, peeping into the hollow willow trees, wishing he could dive like the rats, and singing to the brook, who sang to him again, and taught him a very old tune.  By-and-by he came to the hatch, where the brook fell over with a splash, and a constant bubbling, and churning, and gurgling.  A kingfisher, who had been perched on the rail of the hatch, flew off when he saw Bevis, whistling:  “Weep! weep!”

“Why do you say, weep, weep?” said Bevis.  “Is it because the birds are so foolish?” But the kingfisher did not stay to answer.  The water rushing over the hatch made so pleasant a sound that Bevis, delighted with its tinkling music, sat down to listen and to watch the bubbles, and see how far they would swim before they burst.  Then he threw little pieces of stick on the smooth surface above the hatch to see them come floating over and plunge under the bubbles, and presently appear again by the foam on the other side among the willow roots.

Still more sweetly sang the brook, so that even restless Bevis stayed to hearken, though he could not quite make out what he was saying.  A moor-hen stole out from the rushes farther up, seeing that Bevis was still enchanted with the singing, and began to feed among the green weeds by the shore.  A water-rat came out of his hole and fed in the grass close by.  A blue dragon-fly settled on a water-plantain.  Up in the ash-tree a dove perched and looked down at Bevis.  Only the gnats were busy; they danced and danced till Bevis thought they must be dizzy, just over the water.

“Sing slower,” said Bevis presently, “I want to hear what you are saying.”  So the brook sang slower, but then it was too low, and he could not catch the words.  Then he thought he should like to go over to the other side, and see what there was up the high bank among the brambles.  He looked at the hatch, and saw that there was a beam across the brook, brown with weeds, which the water only splashed against and did not cover deeply.  By holding tight to the rail and putting his feet on the beam he thought he could climb over.

He went down nearer and took hold of the rail, and was just going to put his foot on the beam, when the brook stopped singing, and said:  “Bevis dear, do not do that; it is very deep here, and the beam is very slippery, and if you should fall I would hold you up as long as I could, but I am not very strong, and should you come to harm I should be very unhappy.  Do please go back to the field, and if you will come down some day when I am not in such a hurry, I will sing to you very slowly, and tell you everything I know.  And if you come very gently, and on tip-toe, you will see the kingfisher, or perhaps the heron.”  Bevis, when he heard this, went back, and followed the hedge a good way, not much thinking where he was going, but strolling along in the shadow, and humming to himself the tune he had learnt from the brook.  By-and-by he spied a gap in the hedge under an ash-tree, so he went through in a minute, and there was a high bank with trees like a copse, and bramble-bushes and ferns.  He went on up the bank, winding in and out the brambles, and at last it was so steep he had to climb on his hands and knees, and suddenly as he came round a bramble-bush there was the Long Pond, such a great piece of water, all gleaming in the sunshine and reaching far away to the woods and the hills, as if it had no end.

Bevis clapped his hands with delight, and was just going to stand up, when something caught him by the ankles; he looked round, and it was the bailiff, who had had an eye on him all the time from the hayfield.  Bevis kicked and struggled, but it was no use; the bailiff carried him home, and then went back with a bill-hook, and cutting a thorn bush, stopped up the gap in the hedge.