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 whistles, the mango groves that adorned the bank of the Ganges. The murmuring melody of the river mingled with that mock music in perfect harmony.

The girl with her little soft hand plucked some equally soft wild flowers, and making with them a garland, embellished the boy with it. Taking it off, she coiled it round her own braid and again put it on the neck of the boy. She could not decide which of them should wear it. At last she got over the difficulty by throwing it round the horns of a plump, nice-looking cow grazing near by. So it happened with them often. Sometimes the boy, in return for the garland, used to bring down for her from the nest of birds their little ones, and in mango season he would give her sweet mangoes ripe for relish.

When the stars appeared in the serene sky of the evening, they began to count them. "Who has seen first?" "Which has first appeared?" "How many do you see?"—"Only four? I see five. There is one, there is another, again there is one, again there is another and lastly mark that." It is a lie. Shaibalini does not see more than three.

"Let us count the boats. Can you say how