'What are you doing here, you dwarfs?' asked Cocklecarrot angrily.
'We were passing,' replied the ringleader, 'and so we looked in. Quite like old times. This pony is the model for a new rocking-horse we are constructing. We have, alas, no money to spend on books of anatomy, and so we have to study from nature. A polo rocking-horse ought to be just the thing for a child of wealthy parents. Ah! We cannot all be wealthy. When we were small, we had but one hat between us. Did we, you ask, wear it in turn, or huddle all our heads beneath its sheltering crown, like ants under a mushroom? Your curiosity shall be rewarded, judge. We never wore it at all. It rotted in a shed, unworn. And yet, sometimes when the spring wind blows, we remember that old hat and tears well unbidden to our eyes. So, when a weary heart--'
With a great roar of rage Cocklecarrot sprang erect. 'Clear this damnable court!' he bellowed.
(He then repeated the trick with the water-jug and the sunshine, and burnt the court down.)
And here, I am afraid, the saga of the red-bearded dwarfs runs out of plank. There are no more stories to hand, and further researches must be left to Google libraries of the future.