We wade through the field, slicing the wheat with our sickles. The wheat falls. The heavy heads, full of grain, lie on the golden floor of the field.

I squat and spit on my whetstone. While I sharpen my sickle I watch my brothers work in silence. Occasionally an argument flares up. Except for Benjamin they are all older than me but they behave like children.

Then it is sunset. We are gathering the wheat into sheaves and binding them so they can stand in the fields and dry. All twelve of us brothers seem to come staggering across the landscape, converging on the centre of the field. Each of us is carrying a sheaf of wheat. Suddenly we all shrink--smaller and smaller. As we shrink we drop our sheaves. The sheaves lie flat on the ground. My brothers and I sit like mice in the stubble and watch the sheaves.

Slowly my sheaf stands up by itself in the middle of the field. My brothers' sheaves try to stand up too. They shuffle toward my sheaf but when they get close to it they bow low to the ground before it.