"Oh no," the friendly Cow informed him. "He sells the milk in the city."
Paul remembered the words of the speckled hen, and he asked, "Do the poor children there get any of the milk?"
"Good gracious, Paul," sighed the Cow, "how stupid and inexperienced you still are! From the milk they make delicious whipped cream, which then goes on cakes and puddings, and these are bought by rich people."
"Why not by the poor—don't they like to eat good cakes?"
"You shouldn't ask me so many questions, little boy," replied the Cow. "I am only a dumb Cow, and do not know what to answer you. Besides, you had better go away. This is the time when the farmer comes to the barn, and should he see you it might mean a good beating for you."
Paul stroked the shining hide of the friendly Cow, and pursued his way. On and on he went, until he reached a great big wheat field thru which the wind was blowing. It looked like softly moving golden waves. The ears sang with soft voices, sounding very sad, and Paul distinguished the words: "Soon the reapers will be here with their scythes, z-z, and will cut us down, z-z-z. Then the people will bake us into fine white bread, z-z-z."
"Who eats the white bread?" asked Paul, who had never in his life tasted a piece of white bread.
"The rich people, the rich people," sang the ears of wheat, swaying to the rhythm of the wind.
"Ah, again the rich people!" exclaimed Paul. "Does everything in this world belong to the rich people?"
"Everything, everything," buzzed the ears.
"Why?"
This question seemed to amuse the ears very much and almost doubling with laughter, they sang, "How silly, how stupid you are!"
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