“Shout again!” bade the king of the carnival, who did not care in the least what Peter said, so long only as he acted like a trumpet. So Peter shouted again--shouted his very best. He shouted as loudly as he did at play, as loudly as when he swam and raced in the water, as loudly as any boy could shout. But it seemed to him that his voice carried hardly farther than the little chipmunk-and-squirrel heralds before him, and that nobody heard him. Still, it was all such fun! The glitter of the procession, the eagerness of the people, the lilt and rhythm of the music. And fun over all was it to be carried by the carnival king himself, high above everyone and dressed like a golden trumpet. Surely, surely no boy ever had more fun than that! Surely, surely it was no great marvel that after a little time, so loud was the clamour and so fast the excitement, that Peter stopped crying his message, and merely watched and laughed and delighted with the rest. Up and down through the thronged streets they went, that great, glittering procession, winding its mile or more of spangles and gilding and gay dress and animals richly caparisoned. Everywhere the crowded walks and windows and balconies sent cheers into the air, everywhere flowers were thrown and messages tossed and melody flooded. And wherever that long line passed, everyone noted the king’s trumpet and pointed it out and clapped hands and tried to throw upon it garlands. And there was so much to see, and so much excitement there was in the hour, that at last little Peter did not even think of his message, and only jested and made merry. For it was the most wonderful game that ever he had played. “How now, my little trumpeter?” the king of the carnival would say sometimes, when he rested his arms and held Peter at his side. “Oh, _well_, your majesty!” Peter would cry, laughing up at him. “This is all a fine game and nothing more,” the king of the carnival would tell him. “Is this not so?” Then he would toss the boy on high again, away above the golden car, and Peter would cry out with the delight of it. And though there were no wings and no great brightness in the air, yet the hour was golden and joy was abroad like a person. Presently, a band of mountebanks, dressed like ploughmen and harvesters, came tumbling and racing by the procession, and calling to everyone to come to a corn husking on the city green. “Husks! Husks! A corn husking on the city green. Husks--husks--husks!” they cried. But there was such a tumult that no one could well hear what they said, and presently they appealed to the carnival king to tell the people. “Nay, O king, they hear us not for the noise of thy passing,” said they. “Prithee tell the people what we would say.” “Tell the people, my little trumpeter!” cried the king, and lifted Peter to his lips. And Peter shouted out with all his might. “Husks! Husks! A corn husking on the city green. Husks--husks--husks!”