"That winter draws near the signs are many;
Farewell to thee, my summer sun!"
But she interrupted without hearing me out.
"I know a song like that, only it is a better one."
And she repeated in a singsong voice:
"Oi, the summer sun has gone
To dark nights behind the distant woods!
Ekh! I am left behind, a maiden,
Alone, without the joys of spring.
Every morn I wander round;
I trace the walks I took in May.
The bare fields unhappy look;
There it was I lost my youth.
Oi, my friends, my kind friends,
Take my heart from my white breast,
Bury my heart in the snow!"
My conceit as an author suffered not a little, but I was delighted with this song, and very sorry for the girl.
Grandmother said:
"That is how grief sings. That was made up by a young girl, you know. She went out walking all the springtime, and before the winter her dear love had thrown her over, perhaps for another girl. She wept because her heart was sore. You cannot speak well and truly on what you have not experienced for yourself. You see what a good song she made up."
When she sold a bird for the first time, for forty copecks, she was very surprised.
"Just look at that! I thought it was all nonsense, just a boy's amusement; and it has turned out like this!"