"What's wrong?" I asked, "Are you feeling sick?"

"No" he said, "It's just the way with grass. It grows. It withers. It dies. I can't do anything about it."

"I don't want you to die," I said, "You're my brother."

"'Everything has to die, some time," he said, "Even you."

"But can't you live a bit longer? I've only had you for three weeks!"

"I might manage another week or two," he said.

After that it was like watching someone dying of cancer. He grew weaker. He needed help climbing things. When he came to see me at night, he couldn't play games for as long. He seemed tired. Listless. He couldn't concentrate. When we went over the fence, I had to lift him up and help him down the other side. I piggy-backed him to the stream. He didn't run beside me anymore, and he wasn't strong enough to hold the rope.

"How much longer?" I asked him one afternoon, when we were lying in the paddock. We'd found a frog, and we were watching it clamber through the grass.

"A few days."

"What will happen to you then?"

"I'll go to seed," he said.

"Grass seed?"

"Yes."

The sun was setting and the sky was red like a fire-storm. Far away I heard a motor start up. The birds in the pine trees were singing their evening songs. I lay back and shut my eyes. I was feeling sad again. I almost wished I'd never had a grass-brother. He was my best friend. He and I were mates. Why did he have to go? As I lay there, just thinking sad thought, the sound of the motor seemed to remind me of something. I'd heard that motor somewhere before. It was familiar. Then I knew.

"Dad!" I shouted, "Don't do it!"

"I can hear my people," said Dandy, "They're calling to me."

I ran up the paddock, my legs pounding. I waved my arms. Shouted. Screamed out. But the motor went on and