I took the book therefore and for my own share inscribed a translation of “Du bist wie eine Blume,” which I had made myself and which I always use for that purpose. I then began to search among my papers to see if by any chance I had some old verses from my school days which would suit for the apothecary. Finally I came upon the following bad poem: You set my thoughts in turmoil, I wither in longing’s blight. In solitude you haunt me, I dreamed of you in the night. I dreamed that we walked together Side by side in the twilight dim, And through your lowered lashes I saw the bright tear swim. I kissed your cheek and your eyelids, I saw the tear-drop fall, But oh, your red, red lips, love-- I kissed them most of all. One cannot always dream sweetly. Small rest since then have I known, For, sorrowful oft and weary, I watch through the night-hours alone. Alas! your cheeks so soft, love, I touch but with glances trist, And those red lips, my darling, I never, never have kissed. I showed the apothecary this poem and offered to let him use it. He read it through attentively twice and blushed all over with delight. “Did you really write that yourself?” he inquired in his simplicity of heart. “Yes, I’m sorry to admit.” He thanked me very warmly for the permission to use the poem, and when he went out of the room I imagine we both had the feeling that we must drop the formality of “mister” at the first opportunity. * * * * * That evening there was a little party at the girl’s house. Young folks were there. We drank cherry syrup on a veranda festooned with hop-vines. I sat and looked at the young girl. No, she was not like herself. Her eyes were bigger and more restless than usual and her mouth was redder. And she could not sit still on her chair. From time to time she cast a furtive glance at me, but more often she looked at the apothecary. And the apothecary looked that evening like a turkey-cock. When the punch was passed around, we dropped the “mister.” * * * * * We young people went down on the meadow to play games. We tossed rings and played other games, and meanwhile the sun went down behind the hills and it grew dark. We had laid the rings and the sword in a heap on the ground and were now standing in groups, whispering and smiling, while the dusk came on. But the young girl came up to me through the dusk and took me aside behind a shed. “You must answer me a question,” said she. “Did the druggist really write his verses himself?” Her voice trembled, and she tried to look away as she spoke. “Yes,” I said. “He wrote them last night. I heard him going back and forth in his room all night.” But when I had said that, I felt a sting in my conscience, for I saw that she was a pretty and lovable child and that it was a great sin to deceive her so.