"
"Nevertheless please sing it, for if not to my taste, you will
prevent it from running in my head any longer, as it has ever since
I heard it."
"You will never ask for it again," she said, and she sang the
following words to a low-gliding melody designed to suggest the
murmur of a small stream:
'Twas down in a meadow, close by a brook,
A violet bloomed in a shadowy nook.
She gazed at the rill with a wistful eye---
"He cares not for me, he's hastening by,"
She sighed.
In sunshine and shade the brook sped along,
Nor ceased for a moment his gurgling song.
"'Twould sing all the same were I withered and dead"---
And the blue-eyed violet bowed her head
And died.
But the rill and the song went on the same
Till the pitiless frost of winter came,
When the song was hushed in an icy chill,
And the gay little brook at last stood still
And thought---
"Oh, could I now see the violet blue
that looked at me once with eyes of dew,
I'd spring to her feet and lingering stay
Till sure I was bearing her love away,
Well sought."
The song seemed to disturb the artist somewhat.
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