The sands shall murmur, the stones shall prattle,
As ’neath our horses’ feet they rattle;
We will be talked of everywhere.
Ah, how the villagers will stare:
“See now, Meeschani driving there!”
V
CEREMONY OF THE WREATH-WEAVING
The Kalina[[7]] grows in a little valley;
It has blossomed with a white, white flower.
The bridesmaids went to pluck a bough
But empty-handed come they now.