"What a little ingrate it is! Yesterday morning, while you were
getting breakfast, I was upon the prairie, doing--what think you?"
How was Annette to know?
"Well, I was making verses about ma petite. I was describing her
eyes, and her ears, and all her beautiful face."
"Oh, Monsieur!" and again came the blood to her face till her cheeks
rivalled the crimson dye of the vetch at their ponies' feat. Then in
a little, "What did Monsieur say about my ears? They are like those of all the
Metis girls; and I do not think that they are as pretty as Julie's."
Then he replied with the lines, "Shells of rosy pink and silver are most like her dainty ears;
Shells wherein the fisher maiden the sad Nereid's singing hears."
"Oh, indeed Monsieur, my ears are not at all beautiful like that;
indeed they're not." Then slightly changing her tone, "Perhaps le
capitaine made these about some white maiden whose ears are, like
that."
"What an ungrateful little creature it is!"
"No, but Monsieur cannot make me believe that my ears resemble
shells, coloured in pink and silver. In his heart he is comparing my
brown skin with the snow-white complexions of some of his Caucasian
girls, and thinking how horrid mine is."
"Why, you irreconcilable little wretch, it is your complexion that
most of all I adore. It is not 'brown;' who told you that it was? The
colour of your skin I described in these lines, though you do not
deserve that I should repeat them to you:"
"In the sunny, southern orchard fronting on some tawny beach,
Exquisite with silky softness hangs the downy silver peach; But as
dainty as the beauty of the bloom whereof I speak--Rain, nor sun, nor
frost can change it--is the bloom on Annette's cheek."
"Oh, monsieur! I do not know what to say, if you really made these
verses about me. If you did, they are not true; I am sure they are
not;" and her confusion was a most exquisite sight to see.
"But I have not described your eyes yet; here are the two lines that
I made about them: "Annette's eyes are starlight mingled with the deepest dusk of
night;--
Eyes with lustre rich and glorious like some sweet, warm, southern
light."
"Oh, no, no, monsieur, they are not true; I don't want you to say
any more of them to me," and she put her hand over her face; for the
dear little one's embarrassment was very great.
"That is all I wrote about you; but I may write some more. You say,
petite, that they are not true. I confess that they are not--true
enough. Why, sweet, brave, and most lovely of girls, they fall far
short of showing your merits in the full. I have so far tried to
explain only what is beautiful in your face; but, darling, you have a
nobleness of soul that no language of mine could describe.