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