“You bad boy!” repeated the strange little man.

The more Martin stared at him the harder he stared back at Martin, always with the same unbending severity in his small, round, grey face.  He began to feel a little afraid, and was almost inclined to run away; then he thought it would be funny to run from such a very small man as this, so he stared bravely back once more and cried out, “Go away!”

“You bad boy!” answered the little grey man without moving.

“Perhaps he’s deaf, just like that other old man,” said Martin to himself, and throwing out his arms he shouted at the top of his voice, “Go away!”

And away with a scream he went, for it was only a little grey burrowing owl after all!  Martin laughed a little at his own foolishness in mistaking that common bird he was accustomed to see every day for a little old man.

By-and-by, feeling very tired, he sat down to rest, and just where he sat grew a plant with long white flowers like tall thin goblets in shape.  Sitting on the grass he could see right into one of the flower-tubes, and presently he noticed a little, old, grey, shrivelled woman in it, very, very small, for she was not longer than the nail of his little finger.  She wore a grey shawl that dragged behind her, and kept getting under her feet and tripping her up.  She was most active, whisking about this way and that inside the flower; and at intervals she turned to stare at Martin, who kept getting nearer and nearer to watch her until his face nearly touched the flower; and whenever she looked at him she wore an exceedingly severe expression on her small dried-up countenance.  It seemed to Martin that she was very angry with him for some reason.  Then she would turn her back on him, and tumble about in the tube of the flower, and gathering up the ends of her shawl in her arms begin dusting with great energy; then hurrying out once more she would shake the dust from her big, funny shawl in his eyes.  At last he carefully raised a hand and was just going to take hold of the queer, little, old dame with his forefinger and thumb when up she flew.  It was only a small, grey, twilight moth!

Very much puzzled and confused, and perhaps a little frightened at these curious deceptions, he laid himself down on the grass and shut his eyes so as to go to sleep; but no sooner had he shut his eyes than he heard a soft, soft little voice calling, “Martin!  Martin!”

He started up and listened.  It was only a field cricket singing in the grass.  But often as he lay down and closed his eyes the small voice called again, plainly as possible, and oh so sadly, “Martin!  Martin!”

It made him remember his beautiful mother, now perhaps crying alone in the cave on the mountain, no little Martin resting on her bosom, and he cried to think of it.  And still the small voice went on, calling, “Martin!  Martin!” sadder than ever, until, unable to endure it longer, he jumped up and ran away a good distance, and at last, too tired to go any further, he crept into a tussock of tall grass and went to sleep.