. . . No picture in the book like that—what a genius he is! The book is pushed away; and there lies the table bare:
"Try, will our table turn?
Lay your hands there light, and yearn
Till the yearning slips
Thro' the finger-tips
In a fire which a few discern,
And a very few feel burn,
And the rest, they may live and learn!
Then we would up and pace,
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o'er neck:
'Tis our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space!
Or, if no help, we'll embrace."
The next play must be "dressing-up"; for the sailor-game had ended in that nonsense of a kiss because they had not thought of dressing properly the parts:
"See how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
'Tis a huge fur cloak—
Like a reindeer's zoke
Falls the lappet along the breast:
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best."
Now it is his turn; he must learn to "flirt a fan as the Spanish ladies can"—but she must pretend too, so he makes her a burnt-cork moustache, and she "turns into such a man!" . . .
All this was three months ago, when the snow first mesmerised the earth and put it to sleep. Snow-time is love-time—for hearts can then show all:
"How is earth to know
Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro?"
* * * * *
Three months ago—and now it is spring, and such a dawn of day! The March sun feels like May. He looks out upon it: