“Little weed, little weed,
          In such need,
    Must you pain, ask in vain,
          Die for rain,
    Never bloom, never seed,
          Little weed? 
    O, no, no, you shall not die,
          From the sky
    With my pitcher down I fly. 
          Drink the rain, grow again,
          Bloom and seed,
          Little weed.”

Martin held up his hot little hands to catch some of the falling drops; then the girl, raising her pitcher, poured a stream of cool water right into his face, and laughing at what she had done, went away with a hop, skip, and jump after her companions.

The girls with pitchers had all gone, and were succeeded by troops of boys, just as beautiful, many of them singing and some playing on wind and stringed instruments; and some were running, others quietly walking, and still others riding on various animals—­ostriches, sheep, goats, fawns, and small donkeys, all pure white.  One boy was riding on a ram, and as he came by, strum-strumming on a little silver-stringed banjo, he sang a very curious song, which made Martin prick up his ears to listen.  It was about a speckled snake that lived far away on a piece of waste ground; how day after day he sought for his lost playmate—­the little boy that had left him; how he glided this way and that on his smooth, bright belly, winding in and out among the tall wild sunflowers; how he listened for the dear footsteps—­listened with his green leaf-shaped, little head raised high among the leaves.  But his playmate was far away and came no more to feed him from his basin of bread and milk, and caress his cold, smooth coils with his warm, soft, little hand.

Close after the boy on the ram marched four other little boys on foot, holding up long silver trumpets in readiness to blow.  One of them stopped, and putting his trumpet down close to Martin’s ear, puffed out his little, round cheeks, and blew a blast that made him jump.  Laughing at the joke, they passed on, and were succeeded by others and still others, singing, shouting, twanging their instruments, and some of them stopping for a few moments to look at Martin or play some pretty little trick on him.

But now all at once Martin ceased to listen or even look at them, for something new and different was coming, something strange which made him curious and afraid at the same time.  It was a sound, very deep and solemn, of men’s voices singing together a song that was like a dirge and coming nearer and nearer, and it was like the coming of a storm with wind and rain and thunder.  Soon he could see them marching through the great crowd of people—­old men moving in a slow procession, and they had pale dark faces and their hair and long beards were whiter than snow, and their long flowing robes were of the silvery dark colour of a rain-cloud.  Then he saw that the leaders of the procession were followed by others who carried a couch of mother-o’-pearl