But how about Martin himself?  You might think that with no other child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely a home for him.  Not a bit of it!  No child could have been happier.  He did not want for company; his playfellows were the dogs and cats and chickens, and any creature in and about the house.  But most of all he loved the little shy creatures that lived in the sunshine among the flowers—­the small birds and butterflies, and little beasties and creeping things he was accustomed to see outside the gate among the tall, wild sunflowers.  There were acres of these plants, and they were taller than Martin, and covered with flowers no bigger than marigolds, and here among the sunflowers he used to spend most of the day, as happy as possible.

He had other amusements too.  Whenever John went to his carpenter’s shop—­for the old man still dearly loved his carpentering—­Martin would run in to keep him company.  One thing he liked to do was to pick up the longest wood-shavings, to wind them round his neck and arms and legs, and then he would laugh and dance with delight, happy as a young Indian in his ornaments.

A wood-shaving may seem a poor plaything to a child with all the toyshops in London to pick and choose from, but it is really very curious and pretty.  Bright and smooth to the touch, pencilled with delicate wavy lines, while in its spiral shape it reminds one of winding plants, and tendrils by means of which vines and creepers support themselves, and flowers with curling petals, and curled leaves and sea-shells and many other pretty natural objects.

One day Martin ran into the house looking very flushed and joyous, holding up his pinafore with something heavy in it.

“What have you got now?” cried his father and mother in a breath, getting up to peep at his treasure, for Martin was always fetching in the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them.

“My pretty shaving,” said Martin proudly.

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When they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted green snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore.  It didn’t appear to like being looked at by them, for it raised its curious heart-shaped head and flicked its little red, forked tongue at them.

His mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her hand upon the floor, while John rushed off to get a big stick.  “Drop it, Martin—­drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and I’ll soon kill it.”

Martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of the room and away as fast as he could go.  Away went his father after him, stick in hand, and out of the gate into the thicket of tall wild sunflowers where Martin had vanished from sight.  After hunting about for some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground among the weeds.

“Where’s the snake?” he cried.