"Tell me what means the bright sunshine, The great and restless river Rhine, This teeming land of flocks and herds-- The high, wide blue of summer sky, Where fleecy clouds in quiet lie. To catch the lilt of happy birds. "The Father thinks, and spreads his dream As sun and heaven, field and stream. I feast on his creation-- And when that thought is understood, Then shall my soul confess Him good, And kneel in adoration." Marjon read it, and slowly remarked, as she nodded: "Very well, Jo, but I'm afraid I can't make a song of it. At least, not now. I must have something with more life and movement in it. This is too sober--I must have something that dances. Can't you say something about the stars? I just love them so! Or about the river, or the sun, or about the autumn?" "I will try to," said Johannes, looking up at the twinkling dots sprinkled over the dark night-sky. Then he composed the following song, for which Marjon quickly furnished a melody, and soon they were both singing: "One by one from their sable fold Came the silent stars with twinkling eyes, And their tiny feet illumed like gold The adamantine skies. "And when they'd climbed the domed height-- So happy and full of glee, There sang those stars with all their might A song of jubilee." It was a success. Their fresh young voices were floating and gliding and intertwining like two bright garlands, or two supple fishes sporting in clear water, or two butterflies fluttering about each other in the sunshine. The brown old skipper grinned, and the grimy-faced stokers looked at them approvingly. They did not understand it, but felt sure it must be a merry love-song. Three times--four times through--the children sang the song. Then, little by little, the night fell. But Johannes had still more to say. The sun, and the splendid summer day that had now taken its leave, had left behind a sweet, sad longing, and this he wanted to put upon paper. Lying stretched out on the deck, he wrote the following, by the light of the lantern: "Oh, golden sun--oh, summer light, I would that I might see thee bright Thro' long, drear, winter days! Thy brightest rays have all been shed-- Full soon thy glory will have fled, And cold winds blow; While all dear, verdant ways Lie deep in snow." As he read the last line aloud, his voice was full of emotion. "That's fine, Jo!" said Marjon. "I'll soon have it ready." And after a half-hour of trying and testing, she found for the verses a sweet air, full of yearning. And they sang it, in the dusk, and repeated the former one, until a troupe of street musicians of the sort called "footers" came boisterously out of a beer-house on the shore, and drowned their tender voices with a flood of loud, dissonant, and brazen tones.