Amal. And there are waterfalls!
Gaffer. Dear me, of course; you don't have a hill without its waterfalls. Oh, it's like molten diamonds; and, my dear, what dances they have! Don't they make the pebbles sing as they rush over them to the sea. No devil of a doctor can stop them for a moment. The birds looked upon me as nothing but a man, quite a trifling creature without wings—and they would have nothing to do with me. Were it not so I would build a small cabin for myself among their crowd of nests and pass my days counting the sea waves.
Amal. How I wish I were a bird! Then—
Gaffer. But that would have been a bit of a job; I hear you've fixed up with the dairyman to be a hawker of curds when you grow up; I'm afraid such business won't flourish among birds; you might land yourself into serious loss.
Madhav. Really this is too much. Between you two I shall turn crazy. Now, I'm off.
Amal. Has the dairyman been, Uncle?
Madhav. And why shouldn't he? He won't bother his head running errands for your pet fakir, in and out among the
nests in his Parrots' Isle. But he has left a jar of curd for you saying that he is rather busy with his niece's wedding in the village, and he has got to order a band at Kamlipara.
Amal. But he is going to marry me to his little niece.
Gaffer. Dear me, we are in a fix now.