“O hark at the child!” cried the gruff-voiced Giant Gourmand. “Just as if there were any need for her being more lovely than she is at present.”
“Yes,” piped the dwarf, “hark at her! And look at her at the same time, Gourmie! Look at the flowers in her hair! But what flower in all the forest could be more sweet than she? Fairer is Peggy than the anemone, that waves gently by the treefoot when spring zephyrs are blowing, or floats coyly on the broad bosoms of yonder pond. Prettier is Peggy than dog-rose on the hawthorn hedge asleep; more modest than mountain daisy—the wee, crimson-tipped flower that met the poet in that evil hour; more tender than the blossoms of the blue-eyed pimpernel, more——”
But Peggy stamped her little foot as she bade him be silent, but the glad look in her eye, and her heightened colour showed that young though she was, the maiden could appreciate a compliment as much as e’en a lady of the court of a king.
“Silence, small sir, or I shall hie me at once to my caravan, and you will sigh in vain for the story of my strange adventure in the dewy woods.”
“And yet, Miss Peggy,” the giant insisted, “hardly can I blame my little friend if he waxes both eloquent and enthusiastic in your praise on this lovely May morn.”
“Like Poppies red in the corn’s green is Peggy,” sighed the dwarf.
“Like moonlight on the ocean wave”—from the giant.
“Like music trembling o’er the sea.”
“Or elves that laugh among the ferns.”
“Like Naiads sporting in the fountain’s spray.”