IN THE FOREST
Down the shadowed forest glade, the nymph flashes like a silver arrow from a bow. Her golden hair streams out like a flying veil; her eyes are bright with terror; her crimson, sobbing lips are salt with tears.
Behind her, a dark shadow darting nimbly over the silent earth, a satyr speeds, his cheeks all flushed with red, his clutching hands stretched out.
—Ho, ho, ho! chuckles an old man, leaning upon a staff. Ho, ho, ho! Why dost thou run? Thou wilt be caught! Thou wilt be caught!
High overhead in the sunlight, a bird sings gloriously to the open sky. On the forest path, a squirrel rushes madly over the grass and scampers up a mossy trunk.
A gasp—quick steps upon the earth—a cry.
—Ho, ho, ho! chuckles an old man, leaning upon a staff. Ho, ho, ho! Why didst thou run? Why didst thou run?
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