Thus she recalls perfectly well how the baron, then a youth of perhaps nineteen, once walked with a young lady who was then perhaps fifteen, in the woods, after they had just eaten a philippine at table. He was to lose who first forgot to say _j'y pense_ when he took anything from the hand of the other. She had cunningly made a most beautiful bouquet, and when the young man admired the flowers, she had said with a bashful smile, "Would you like to have it, Adalbert?" And when he, blushing at the unexpected favor, had taken the bouquet without saying a word, she had clapped her hands and cried out, "_J'y pense! j'y pense!_ I thought you would lose it!" That was a long time ago, and the ink with which the poem was written had faded considerably. The poem ran thus: J'Y PENSE. I know a little maid-- J'Y PENSE! With eyes deep brown and staid-- J'Y PENSE! Her hair in brown curls fell, Her laugh was like a silver bell-- J'Y PENSE! It was a summer's day-- J'Y PENSE! The wood in shadows lay-- J'Y PENSE! I took the flowers from your hand, You laughed at me, the dreamer, and, J'Y PENSE! J'Y PENSE! Oh, I forgot the word, J'Y PENSE! Now sung by every chord, J'Y PENSE! It takes my happiness and rest, Oh, maiden say and be ye blessed, J'Y PENSE! Not all the poems are as naïve and full of hope as this, but they are all addressed to the same person. Later, the poems become rarer and make way for philosophical and political reflections. Only on one of the last pages there was written in a very bold hand, as if the soul of the writer had burnt with hope and love while he was writing the lines: Yes, thou art mine! I have aroused to life Thy fair but cold and pallid face divine. I gave thee life, and thus thou art now mine! And I am thine! For all my mournful strife Would but be wandering in a wilderness Without thee, therefore I am thine!