I give it a kiss on its petals,
Whenever I pass by her gate[6].
And she in her turn guards her charge with a jealous eye.
A ruddy carnation have I,
But I keep it secure from the cold,
And I shade off the gaze of the sun,
Lest it tarnish, if he were too bold[7].
Such a carnation was once thus tended by a poor village girl: it had grown up and blossomed and put forth its deep, rich hues under her care, though she was so poor that she had nothing to grow it in but a broken olla[8]. Nevertheless when she thought of the happy day when it should become a love-token to one worthy of her, she took such care of it, covering it up when the sun was too hot, watering it with water from the purest spring, sheltering it from the wind, bringing it into her room to guard through the night, lest any evil should befall it, that never carnation flourished so gloriously; it was her only flower, the object of her whole care.
One day there came into the garden a maja[9] in her gala costume. According to the pretty Andalusian custom, she carried a bunch of bright, sparkling flowers twisted into her raven hair behind her left ear.
“Ah!” cried the handsome carnation from the depths of its broken olla, “why should it not be my lot to adorn the head of this lovely creature, instead of being abandoned to the care of a penniless peasant?”