The Slowworm of Lenty curses God; He lifts his head from the heavy sod; He lifts his head where the Lenty willow Weeps green tears o’er the rain-elf’s pillow; For the rain-elf’s lover is fled and gone, And none curseth God but the Slowworm alone.

“It’s about the pond,” said Jason gravely. “I go there sometimes in the evening. When it’s misty you can easily imagine an elf or a nymph floating on its surface.”

“Is that all?” enquired Wolf.

“Not quite,” replied the other; “but you probably won’t like the way it ends. It’ll seem funny to you; too remote from your way of thinking; and it is rather funny; but Lenty Pond is a funny place.”

“Do go on,” said Wolf.

And once more in his delicately modulated voice the poet began intoning: