Selma— See, there's one that still
Nips at it in the eddies. See its scales.
You cannot carve like that. Look out! Oh, oh!
(She runs down to the outlet of the spring by which the minnow has passed out, and walks up and down, stooping occasionally to feel among the stones of the rill. Oswald goes back and sits down upon the log. After a while Selma rises and looks toward the spring. The trunk is between her and Oswald.)
'Twill grieve her so.
(In a low chant, abstractedly.)
She's sleeping in the spring
Under the dark rock where the white sand pours.
The moss is softer in the forest there,
And there the wood-doves coo.
He's going away; they told me yesterday.
The forest heard them moan: He will not come.
The chestnut burr shall break;
The wild bird, feeding, shake
Unpicked the purple hartcrops to the ground,
And the hushed forest only hear the sound
Of antlers knocking where the wild deer rubs.
He's going away—away—away.
(Staring vacantly into the forest, her back to Oswald, she unconsciously picks the green burrs from the branches above her.)
Oswald—Selma. (After a pause.)
Come here; will you?
Selma— I'm gathering mast.
My fawns, they like it so. It makes them sleek.
Oswald—I want to tell you something.