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He roused himself again, brushed imaginary snuff from his coat, keeping time with his foot to the wheel as it went round. "I I suppose she will wed soon.... I had forgotten. But she must marry well, she must marry well she is the godchild of the Duc de Mauban. How the wheel goes round! I used to hear her mother sing that song, 'Gigoton, Mergaton spin-spin-spin." He was asleep.
Your gown shall be stitched ere the old moon fade: The age of a moon shall your hands spin on, Or a wife in her shroud shall be laid Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" "Yes, yes, that's it!" he exclaimed with gay ardour. "That's it. Sing on. There are two more verses." "I'll only sing one," she answered, with a little air of wilfulness. "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton!
"No, no, that's not right, stupid sailor-man," she said, and she sang a verse at him over the last details of her work: "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! The moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, And your wedding-gown you must put it on Ere the night hath no moon in the sky Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" She paused. He was entranced.
"No, no, that's not right, stupid sailor-man," she said, and she sang a verse at him over the last details of her work: "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! The moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, And your wedding-gown you must put it on Ere the night hath no moon in the sky Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" She paused. He was entranced.
He roused himself again, brushed imaginary snuff from his coat, keeping time with his foot to the wheel as it went round. "I I suppose she will wed soon. . . . I had forgotten. But she must marry well, she must marry well she is the godchild of the Duc de Mauban. How the wheel goes round! I used to hear her mother sing that song, 'Gigoton, Mergaton spin-spin-spin." He was asleep.
He had never heard her sing, and the full, beautiful notes of her contralto voice thrilled him like organ music. His look devoured her, her song captured him. "Please go on," he said, "I never heard it that way." She was embarrassed yet delighted by his praise, and she threw into the next verse a deep weirdness: "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton!
The Little Good Folk the spell they have cast; By your work well done while the moon hath shone, Ye shall cleave unto joy at last Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" As she sang the last verse she seemed in a dream, and her rich voice, rising with the spirit of the concluding lines, poured out the notes like a bird drunk with the air of spring.
Your gown shall be stitched ere the old moon fade: The age of a moon shall your hands spin on, Or a wife in her shroud shall be laid Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" "Yes, yes, that's it!" he exclaimed with gay ardour. "That's it. Sing on. There are two more verses." "I'll only sing one," she answered, with a little air of wilfulness. "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton!
The Little Good Folk the spell they have cast; By your work well done while the moon hath shone, Ye shall cleave unto joy at last Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" As she sang the last verse she seemed in a dream, and her rich voice, rising with the spirit of the concluding lines, poured out the notes like a bird drunk with the air of spring.
He was slipping away into sleep when he realised that Guida was singing "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! The moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, And your wedding-gown you must put it on Ere the night hath no moon in the sky Gigoton Mergaton, spin!" "I had never thought she was so much a woman," he said drowsily; "I I wonder why I never noticed it."
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