Sunshine warmed a big, green field. In this field grew many plants. There were happy oats, friendly barley, and tall rye. And then, there was Buckwheat.

Buckwheat was a bit different. It held its head up very, very high. "Look at me!" it seemed to say. "Aren't my flowers the whitest? Aren't my leaves the greenest?" Buckwheat thought it was the most beautiful plant in the whole field. It looked down on the other grains, who were busy ripening in the sun.

Nearby stood an old, wise Willow Tree. Its branches swayed gently. The Willow Tree had seen many summers and many storms. "Little Buckwheat," whispered the Willow Tree, "a storm is coming. When the wind blows hard and the lightning flashes, you should bend your head down low, like the other grains. It's safer that way."

Buckwheat puffed up its leaves. "Bend my head? Why should I? I am too beautiful to bend. I will stand tall and show the storm how lovely I am!" The other flowers in the field, like the little blue forget-me-nots, also told Buckwheat to be careful, but it wouldn't listen.

Soon, the sky turned dark gray. Big, angry clouds rolled in. BOOM! Thunder rumbled. FLASH! Bright lightning zigzagged across the sky. The wind began to howl. WHOOSH! It pushed against the plants.

The oats, barley, and rye quickly bent their heads down, close to the ground. They knew the Willow Tree was smart. The little flowers hid under their leaves. They were safe.

But Buckwheat? Oh no. It stood straight and tall, its white flowers facing the angry sky. "I will not bend!" it thought proudly. "Let the storm see my beauty!"

Then, CRACKLE-ZAP! A flash of lightning, brighter than all the others, came straight down from the sky. It hit the proud Buckwheat.

When the storm passed, the sun peeked out. The oats, barley, and rye lifted their heads. They were a little wet, but okay. The little flowers opened up again.

But the Buckwheat... oh dear. It was black and burnt. Its pretty white flowers were gone. It was just a sad, crispy stalk. It couldn't even be used for flour anymore.

The old Willow Tree sighed. "Poor Buckwheat," it whispered. "It was so proud, it forgot to be wise." And the other plants knew that sometimes, it's better to be humble and bend a little than to stand too proud and get into trouble.

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