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Updated: June 7, 2025
Concha's cheeks were as pink as the Castilian roses that grew even before the kitchen door and were quivering at the moment under the impassioned carolling of a choir of larks. Her black eyes were full of dancing lights, like the imprisoned sun-flecks under the rose bush, and never had indolent Spanish hands moved so quickly. "Mira! Mira!" she cried to the luckless Rosa.
Considering the crestfallen air of the author, and the sigh with which he parted from her and went his way to join his brother, she was rather surprised to find the sort of verses that they were. They were copied in a neat, boyish hand, and read as follows: Then shoals of little fishes fled, And sun-flecks danced amain, And rings of water spread and spread Till all was smooth again.
A perfect summer morning, a rippling blue river that shone like glass where the willows dipped and trailed, and a girl who sang a murmurous little song to herself as she slid down the bank into the laughing stream. Ah, it was heavenly! The sun-flecks on the water danced and swam all about her. The trees whispered to one another above her floating form.
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