each side of the wider bed in which it now finds itself.
Witching Undines throng here; the Mountain-Lover knows it and plainly hears their exultant peals of elfin laughter; he turns his back every now and then to the stream ostentatiously, ever hoping that unwarily they will throw off the cloak of invisibility which they swiftly assumed when they heard his first footsteps on the banks of their fairy haunts. He catches their mocking laughter, but he never can turn quite quickly enough to catch the glimpse he craves. The edge of white foam that fringes the brown-green mantle is all he actually sees. He appeals to the saucy nymphs reproachfully; he holds out his hands entreatingly; he promises solemnly not to tell—as if mere words could ever tell!—to another mortal of their mocking buoyant beauty flirting its sparkling drops through the crystal June air, if they will lift for just one instant the pied cloak of amber and green that conceals their elusive gayety.
