And you are red: Mary and I will choose
Some golden fellow. Which do you think, Mary?

_Jean_.
O, but mine is the one! Look--do you see?--
He must have put his curls away from the axe;
Or did they part themselves when he knelt down,
And let the stroke have his nape white and bare?
O could a girl not nestle snug and happy
Against a neck, with such hair covering her!

_Katrina_.
Now, Mary, we must make our yellow choice;
You've got good eyes; which do you fancy?--Jean!
What ails her?

_Jean_.
How she stares! which is the one
She singles out? That topmost boy it is,--
Pretty enough for a flaxen poll indeed.
Is that your lad, Mary?

_Katrina_.
She's ill or fey;
They are too much for her; and I truly
Am nearly weeping for them and their wives and lasses.
Her eyes don't budge! She's fastened on his face
With just the look that one would have to greet
The ghost of one's own self. See, all her blood
Is trapt in her heart,--pale she is as he.