“Why, I declare, that was she in light green!” said Cousin Hans; he had barely had time to transfer his burning glance from the light-pink frock to the light-green. “But wasn’t she lovely, Ola?”
“Oh yes,” answered Ola with an effort.
“What a cross-grained being you are!” exclaimed Hans, indignantly. “But even if you’re devoid of all sense for female beauty, I think you might at least show more interest in—in your brother’s future wife.”
“If you only knew how she interests me,” thought the nefarious Ola, hanging his head.
But meanwhile this delightful meeting had thrown Hans into an ecstatic mood of amorous bliss; he swung his stick, snapped his fingers, and sang at the pitch of his voice.
As he thought of the fair one in the light-green frock—fresh as spring, airy as a butterfly, he called it—the refrain of an old ditty rose to his lips, and he sang it with great enjoyment:
“Hope’s clad in April green—
Trommelommelom, trommelommelom,
Tender it’s vernal sheen—
Trommelommelom, trommelommelom.”
This verse seemed to him eminently suited to the situation, and he repeated it over and over again—now in the waltz-time of the old melody, now as a march, and again as a serenade—now in loud, jubilant tones, and then half whispering, as if he were confiding his love and his hope to the moon and the silent groves.
Cousin Ola was almost sick; for, great as was his respect for his brother’s singing, he became at last so dog-tired of this April-green hope and this eternal “Trommelommelom” that it was a great relief to him when they at last arrived at the Sheriff’s.
The afternoon passed as it always does on such occasions; they all enjoyed themselves mightily. For most of them were in love, and those who were not found almost a greater pleasure in keeping an eye upon those who were.