With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
‘Witchery—witchery—witchery.’”
Her glance came back to me.
“I wish, Mr. Dale, that we had blue violets in these woods—they all seem to be yellow. Why do you stare at me so?”
“I had no idea you were coming; it is a stare of surprise.”
“But you’re glad to see me, now, aren’t you? I’ll paddle you home. How’s the cabin getting on?”