Then I would bend my trunk inward a little, so as to form a sort of living arm-chair, which would support her lightly and prevent her from falling, and swing her gently back and forth. Her laughter was like a shower of pearls, but she was never satisfied.
"Harder! Harder!" she would cry, and I quickened the motion and sent her higher and higher, until, when I felt it was becoming dangerous, I stopped.
Then she would get angry and try to beat me. But her tender little hands hurt themselves on my rough skin, and she would stop, ready to cry, and say:
"Hateful thing! You prick me!"
To comfort her I would stroll towards the fountain, and she would follow clapping her hands....
"Oh, yes—yes, make the water-spout."
This consisted in drawing up an enormous quantity of water (we are capable of holding in our stomachs an incredible amount), and of raising my trunk and spouting it out in sprays, jets, and showers. The sun shining on the little drops made them sparkle with all the colours of the rainbow.
With uplifted head and with ecstatic eyes, Parvati would look on. She did not laugh nor exclaim, but said gravely:
"That is beautiful!"
Her one fixed idea was to get on my back and go for a promenade. But a fall from such a mountain as I would have been terrible for her, and I opposed a firm resistance.