the melodious music of the ringing ornaments in a woman's hands. He alone can say how it, embellishing her bosom with a garland of its bubbles, dances in that musical concord. He alone can say how it, rocking the playful swimming little bird on its surface, dances in accompaniment to that ringing music. He alone can say how it, raising its little curling waves, leaps and frisks about her hands, her neck, her shoulders and breast, well-regulated by that melodious tune—again, how the sportive beauty in her turn, floating her pail on the surface of the water, entrusting it to the care of the gentle breeze, dips herself in the water up to the chin, touches it with her purple lips, takes it within her little mouth, and sends it up in the air towards the sun—the water while falling down presents her with a hundred sun, in all its glittering particles. At the very movement of her limbs the water dances and shoots up in silvery fountains. Her heart at the same time dances with the waving ripples of the water. Both are of the same nature! Water is fickle and so also the all-captivating heart of women. Water takes no impression, does a young woman's heart take?
The golden rays of the evening sun gradually
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