"I know it myself."
"Are we strangers? Are we not sister and brother?"
"Oh, if we were sister and brother," cried Busie. And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from the "Song of Songs," "O that thou wert as my brother."
It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always think of the "Song of Songs."
. . . . .
Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of the "Shevuous." Well, we ran down hill, Busie in front, I after her. She is angry with me because of the Queen's daughter. She likes all my stories excepting the one about the Queen's daughter. But Busie's anger need not worry one. It does not last long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She is again looking up at me with her great, bright, thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says to me:
"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going on all around us."
"I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear the birds piping and twittering as they fly over our heads. It is our sky, and our breeze. The little birds are ours too—everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Busie."
No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me? Why does she grow red?
"There," says Busie to me—"over there, on the other side of the bridge." And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in the "Song of Songs."