The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothes—props cut from bracken stems, with lines of plaited rushes, and a heap of tiny clothes pins—but no pocket-handkerchiefs!
But there was something else—a door! straight into the hill; and inside it some one was singing—
| "Lily-white and clean, oh! |
| With little frills between, oh! |
| Smooth and hot—red rusty spot |
| Never here be seen, oh!" |
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