'Yes, yes,' said Johannes. 'It is very strange!'
He was in fact a little uneasy, and felt happier when, after thanking the herd-keeper, they had taken their leave, and were sitting far from the Ant colony, rocked on the top of a tall grass-stem, under the shade of a graceful fern.
'Hooh!' sighed Johannes, 'that was a bloodthirsty and stupid tribe!'
Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on the grass haulm.
'Oh!' said he, 'you must not call them stupid. Men go to the ants to get wisdom.'
Then Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the wood; they flew up to visit the birds in the tree-tops and in the thick shrubs, went down into the moles' clever dwellings, and saw the bees' nest in the old hollow tree.
At last they came out on an open place surrounded by brushwood. Honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. Its luxuriant trails climbed over everything, and the scented flowers peeped from among the greenery. A swarm of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves with a great deal of twittering and chirping.
'Let us stay here a little while,' said Johannes; 'this is splendid.'
'Very well,' said Windekind. 'And you shall see something very droll.'
There were blue-bells in the grass. Johannes sat down by one of them and began to talk with the bees and the butterflies. They were friends of the blue-bells', so the conversation went on at a great rate.
What was that? A huge shadow came across the grass, and something like a white cloud fell down on the blue-bell--Johannes had scarcely time to get away,--he flew to Windekind who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle flower. Then he saw that the white cloud was a pocket-handkerchief, and bump! A sturdy damsel sat down on the handkerchief and on the poor blue-bell which was under it.
He had not time to bewail it before the sound of voices and the cracking of branches filled the glade in the forest. A crowd of men and women appeared.
'Now we shall have something to laugh at,' said Windekind.
The party came on, the ladies with umbrellas in their hands, the men with tall chimney-pot hats, and almost all in black, completely black. In the green sunny wood they looked like great, ugly ink-spots on a beautiful picture. The brushwood was broken down, flowers trodden underfoot; many white handkerchiefs were spread, and the yielding grass and patient moss sighed as they were crushed under the weight they had to bear, fearing much that they might never recover from the blow. The smoke of cigars curled among the honeysuckle wreaths, and enviously supplanted the delicate odour of their blossoms. Sharp voices scared the gleeful tomtits, who, with terrified and indignant piping, took refuge in the nearest trees.