I KNOW THAT at the dim end of some day the sun will bid me its last farewell. Shepherds will play their pipes beneath the banyan trees, and cattle graze on the slope by the river, while my days will pass into the dark. This is my prayer, that I may know before I leave why the earth called me to her arms. Why her night's silence spoke to me of stars, and her daylight kissed my thoughts into flower. Before I go may I linger over my last refrain, completing its music, may the lamp be lit to see your face and the wreath woven to crown you.
I REMEMBER the scene on the barren heath-a girl sat alone on the grass before the gipsy camp, braiding her hair in the afternoon shade. Her little dog jumped and barked at her busy hands, as though her employment had no importance. In vain did she rebuke it, calling it 'a pest,' saying she was tired of its perpetual silliness. She struck it on the nose with her reproving forefinger, which only seemed to delight it the more. She looked menacingly grave for a few moments, to warn it of impending doom; and then, letting her hair fall, quickly snatched it up in her arms, laughed, and pressed it to her heart.
