The drops come dancing down on his shoulder, through his hair and on his face. He collects some of the drops in his palm and throws it down at the little flowers near the fence. He looks up to see the clouds, and closes his eyes. He feels the cold drops on his eyes and lips and nose. He shakes them off his face. The clouds shout in glee and pours down all it has.
He jumps up to catch the clouds but loses his footing and falls. He claps his hands and laughs at his own foolishness. He gets up and starts to dance. The bells on his anklets ring bringing to life the monotonous harmony of the rain. "Pitter-patter, pitter-patter," he sings, "Pots are made by the potter!" He whirls round. Rain drops scatter in all directions. Encouraged, he shakes his head, and giggles.
"It rains so heavily! Where has my little Prince gone?" says the Mother as she searches for him. "Oh! How shall I see him? The sky has attained the same complexion as my darling!" She comes out of the house and sees her son in the courtyard. He is signalling at the sky as if to ask it for a heavier shower. She calls him by his name. He turns and smiles at her. He claps and beckons her to join him. She calls him inside, but he pays no attention.
She walks up to him picks him up and covers him. He slips down and sits down on the dirty soil. The Mother tries again, but this time he lies down and wriggles and squirms until she lets go of him and sits down beside him. He sits up and rubs his dirty hands across her face, and she pulls him close to her, as the rain alights gently on them.
The earth is content but the sky is thirsty to feel the easy ecstasy.
