Delicate work this! Here's
a needle might serve for a genuine stiletto! No matter,--it is the
cause,--it is the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in
this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of the bravest
lance that brave knight ever won.
(_Singing_)
_The brooks are talking in the dell,
Tul la lul, tul la lul,
The brooks are talking low, and sweet,
Under the boughs where th' arches meet;
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come_.
_The birds are singing in the dell,
Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo;
The birds are singing wild and free,
In every bough of the forest tree,
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come_.
_And there the idle breezes lie,
Whispering, whispering,
Whispering with the laughing leaves.
And nothing says each idle breeze,
But come, come, come, O lady come,
Come to th' dell_.
[_Mrs. Grey enters from without_.]
_Mrs. G_. Do not sing, Annie.
_Annie_. Crying would better befit the times, I know,--Dear mother, what
is this?
_Mrs. G_. Hush,--asleep--is she?
_Annie_. This hour, and quiet as an infant.
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