silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the
river is haunted by a deepening gloom.

Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence.

O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.

Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as
they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain water is running
in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run
away from his mother to tease her.

Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.

O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is
closed.

The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water
in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.

The evening lamps must be made ready.

O child, do not go out!

The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.