"There, boy!" she said.
"You have nice golden hair," the boy said.
"See! it shines in the dusk. It strikes me it's the only gold I shall get in this town."
"Still it's nice, don't you think?" the girl whispered in his ear.
She had her arms round his neck.
"I love it," the boy said joyfully; "and you like my songs, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, I like them very much, but I like you better."
The boy put her off roughly.
"You're as bad as the rest of them," he said indignantly. "I tell you my songs are everything, I am nothing."
"But it was you who ate my supper, boy," said the girl.
The boy kissed her remorsefully. "But I wish you had liked me for my songs," he sighed. "You are better than any silly old songs!"