(The song that Toomai’s mother sang to the baby)  
     Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,
     Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,
     Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,
     From the King upon the guddee to the Beggar at the gate.
        All things made he—Shiva the Preserver.
        Mahadeo!  Mahadeo!  He made all,—
        Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
        And mother’s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!
     Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor,
     Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door;
     Battle to the tiger, carrion to the kite,
     And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night.
     Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low—
     Parbati beside him watched them come and go;
     Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest—
     Stole the little grasshopper and hid............