“Sing me something else.”
“Before I sing give me a kiss!” A short struggle; then his voice:
“What? first you want one, and then you struggle, you cat!”
“Here I am.”
“Leave go! d——n it, you scratch!”
“If you take another girl I will scratch out your eyes!”
“Anything else?”
“No; I will lie down under a juniper-bush and starve myself to death. You must come to my funeral. Oh, that will be beautiful! Now just pay attention; I know a beautiful verse:
“‘What my love for you is, have you known?
There is on the heath a grave all alone;
In it a poor dead poet is sleeping,
To whom his love has brought much weeping;
He sleeps and sleeps in his sombre grave,
But sleeps not away the grief love gave.
At midnight go to the grave on the heath,
And wait till he again shall breathe;
He knows the singing and kissing well,
And he can tell—’
“Isn’t that pretty?”