dimple in her chin and the ringlets in her hair, and of the cherry
pies she achieved with such celerity--sang as they sat in the
spring-decked meadow every word of that inane old song that is so
utterly senseless and so utterly unforgettable.
It was a quite idiotic performance. I set it down to the snares of
Spring--to her insidious, delightful snares of scent and sound and
colour that--for the moment, at least--had trapped these young people
into loving life infinitely.
But I wonder who is responsible for that tatter of rhyme and melody
that had come to them from nowhere in particular? Mr. Woods, as he sat