"They have trodden my palm as hard as a cake." So they caught up a plough and ploughed her hand, Wrestling on while she sought for something-- _Over hill and dale, through day and night, seeking for something_. "You have furrowed my palm; it tickles and smarts." So they brought a weaver and wove her lint, Wrestling on while she sought for something-- _Over hill and dale, through night and day, seeking for something_. "Foul play! Foul play! Look down and decide," "Not I, poor flies, I must search for something." So they caught up a town to watch the game. "He is right! He is wrong!" cried old and young. "He is wrong! He is right!" And so war began. While they wrestled away and she sought for something, _Over hill and dale, through night and day, seeking for something_. "What a noise you make; I am tired of flies." So she swept them into a melon rind. "Be quiet, flies! lie still in the dark." She clapped her palm to the hole in the rind. "I'm tired of it all, I will go to sleep; When morning comes I will seek for something-- _Over hill and dale, through night and day, I must seek for something_". She rested her head on her palm, and slept, Down in the valley close to the river; Slept to the tune of the buzzing flies, Wrestling and fighting about fair play. And while she slept the big Flood came, And the melon pillow floated away. And all within swarmed out to the sun-- Grass, and herds, and ploughs, and looms. People fighting for none knows what. "I have made a new world," she said, with a laugh. "A brand-new world; and the flies have gone. But the palm of my right hand tickles still, May be it will cool when I find what I seek." So she left her new world down by the river, Left it alone and sought for something-- _Over hill and dale, through night and day, seeking for something_.' The galloping wheel, which had responded always to the mad hurry of the recurring refrain, slackened slowly. Rose gave a sigh of relief, and glanced at Lewis Gordon to see if he too had been oppressed by that shrinking recognition of a stress, a strain, a desire, such as she had never felt before; but he was leaning forward, his chin on his curved hand, intent on listening, so she could not see his face. 'By the powers,' came Dan Fitzgerald's voice above the softening hum, 'the old chap has made an Ayôdhya pot--the same shape, I mean.'