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.
