"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going on all around us." "I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear the birds piping and twittering as they fly over our heads. It is our sky, and our breeze. The little birds are ours too--everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Busie." No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me? Why does she grow red? "There," says Busie to me--"over there, on the other side of the bridge." And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in the "Song of Songs." "Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages. "Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth." And we are at the little bridge. * * * The stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of the little bridge are shaking. Busie is afraid. "Ah, Busie, you are a---- Why are you afraid, little fool? Hold on to me. Or, let us take hold of one another, you of me, and I of you. See? That's right--that's right." No more little bridge. We still cling to one another, as we walk along. We are alone in this Garden of Eden. Busie holds me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but I imagine she is talking to me in the words from the "Song of Songs": "My beloved is mine, and I am his." The Levada is big. It stretches away without a beginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with red nails. It gives out a delicious odour--the most fragrant spices in the world are there. We walked along, embraced--we two alone in the Garden of Eden. "Shemak," says Busie to me, looking straight into my eyes, and nestling still closer to me, "when shall we start gathering the green boughs for the '_Shevuous_'?"