As the wind bends her coaxingly,
Brushes softly the maiden's white hand--
That falls with an idle grace,
Listlessly closed at her side--
With a rippling touch, such as the tide,
Rising, leaves on a summer day,
On the quiet shore of some peaceful bay.

There she stands in the heavily-bladed grass,
Under the trumpet-vine,
Drinking long, deep, intoxicate draughts
Of Nature's lusty, live wine.
There he sees her as he approaches;
Then pauses, as full on his ear
There swells, on a sudden, loud and clear,
A wonderful burst of song.

A mad delicious glory; a rainbow rhythm of life,
Strong and young and free, a burst of the senses all astrife,
Each one fighting to be first,
While above, beyond them all,
Loud a woman's heart makes call."

"Now, fire ahead," said Eric, "get your stones ready. Mrs. Jerrold, pray
begin; let us put down this young parrot with her 'lusty, live wine.'"

"Her?" exclaimed Edith. "Him, you mean."

"Not a bit of it; a woman wrote that, didn't she?"