And pipe the nightingale and dove,
And plash the fountain’s silver spray.
“What shall I bring to thee, my own?
Visions of heaven’s mansions fair;
Never had king a truer throne
Than my heart’s casket rich and rare.”
“Sing on, little Mousmé; there are other verses of your little love-song,” I say.
But she is tired, and, unconsciously like a European prima donna, only sings the last two lines over again—
“Never had king a truer throne
Than my heart's casket rich and rare.”
“True, Mousmé, true,” I say, half to myself, as the song loses itself in the air. But she catches the words, and smiles.
The wet season is coming on, alas! before I can leave, and our evenings beneath the verandah will be less frequent. It is not nearly so pleasant indoors, but the
