ded field to catch the fishes as they escape from the over lowing ponds;

　　the rain-water is running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run away from his mother to tease her.

　　Listen，someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.

　　O child，the daylight is dim，and the crossing at the ferry is closed.

　　The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain;

　　the water in the river is loud and impatient;

　　women have hastened home early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.

　　The evening lamps must be made ready.

　　O child，do not go out！

　　The road to the market is desolate，the lane to the river is slippery.

　　The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.