Peals of laughter, too, sounded from time to time in a far away corner
of the cavern, and the laughter sent all the stuff it reached into
very delicate, embroidered patterns. For it was merry and infectious
laughter, joy somewhere in it like a lamp. It bordered upon singing;
another touch would send it rippling into song. And to that far
corner, attracted by the sound, ran numberless rivulets of light,
weaving a lustrous atmosphere about the Laugher that, even while it
glowed, concealed the actual gatherer from sight. The children only
saw that the patterns were even more sweet and dainty than their own.
And they understood. Inside-sight explained the funny little mystery.
Laughter is magical--brings light and help and courage. They laughed
themselves then, and instantly saw their own patterns wave and tremble
into tiny outlines that they could squeeze later even into the
darkest, thickest head.
Cousinenry, meanwhile, they saw, stopped for nothing. He was singing
all the time as he bent over his long, outstretched arms. And it was
the singing after all that made the best patterns--better even than
the laughing. He knew all the best tricks of this Star Cave. He
remained their leader.
And the stuff no hands picked up ran on and on, seeking a way of
escape for itself. Some sank into the ground to sweeten the body of
the old labouring earth, colouring the roots of myriad flowers; some
soaked into the rocky walls, tinting the raw materials of hills and
woods and mountain tops.
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