'I believe a hippopotamus is going to happen to us,' said
Jane--'a very, very big one.'

They had all turned to face the danger.

'Don't be silly little duffers,' said the Psammead in its
friendly, informal way; 'it's not a river-horse. It's a human.'

It was. It was a girl--of about Anthea's age. Her hair was
short and fair, and though her skin was tanned by the sun, you
could see that it would have been fair too if it had had a
chance. She had every chance of being tanned, for she had no
clothes to speak of, and the four English children, carefully
dressed in frocks, hats, shoes, stockings, coats, collars, and
all the rest of it, envied her more than any words of theirs or
of mine could possibly say. There was no doubt that here was the
right costume for that climate.

She carried a pot on her head, of red and black earthenware. She
did not see the children, who shrank back against the edge of the
jungle, and she went forward to the brink of the river to fill
her pitcher. As she went she made a strange sort of droning,
humming, melancholy noise all on two notes. Anthea could not
help thinking that perhaps the girl thought this noise was
singing.

The girl filled the pitcher and set it down by the river bank.
Then she waded into the water and stooped over the circle of cut
reeds. She pulled half a dozen fine fish out of the water within