Where are you going, Oswald?—(A pause.) See my hair.
Why should it scare the fishes? You are wise;
Why should it, Oswald? It is soft as hers
Down in the spring, and if you'll come and look
You'll see the smallest minnows twinkle there;
They do not fear.
Oswald— It is a snare.
Selma— (Naively.)
Is it?
I would not harm them, Oswald.
Oswald— Father Paul says
It is the snare of Satan.
Selma— I know him.
'Tis not my hair he uses.
Oswald— (With horror.) Know Satan! (He turns away.)
Selma—I did not know his name was—Ah, you run!
You are just like the fishes. Come and play.
I will not let it fall. (Throwing back her hair.)
I will just peep
Over the edge.
(Going up the slope to where the boughs hang low, she begins to gather the green burrs. While she gathers them, she sings:)
Hark, shepherd, hark; the forest calls
Away to the greenwood still.
We'll leave the dewy wether-bell
To tinkle on the hill.
Our ewes shall nibble gowan;
We'll gipsy in the wood;
Our bed shall be the wild plush moss;
Our cruse shall be the flood.