For here is the print of your slender foot,
  And the rose that fell from your braided hair,
In the lush deep moss at the bilberry’s root—­
  And the scent of lilacs is in the air! 
Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood? 
  Do roses drop from the bilberry bough? 
Answer me, little Red Riding Hood! 
  You are hiding there in the bracken, now!

Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle—­
  I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue—­
Your yellow locks—­ah, you know full well
  Your scarlet mantle has told on you;
Come out this minute, you laughing minx! 
  —­By all the dryads of wood and wold! 
’Tis only a cluster of Indian pinks
  And corn flowers, under the gorses’ gold.

AT MILKING-TIME.

“Coe, Berry-brown!  Hie, Thistledown! 
  Make haste; the milking-time is come! 
The bells are ringing in the town,
  Tho’ all the green hillside is dumb,
And Morn’s white curtain, half withdrawn,
Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn.” 
    Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: 
    “Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail! 
    See the vapors, white as curd,
    By the waking winds are stirred,
    And the east is brightening slow
    Tom is long a-field, I know!

“Coe, Bell!  Come Bright!  Miss Lilywhite,
  I see you hiding in the croft! 
By yon steep stair of ruddy light
  The sun is climbing fast aloft;
What makes the stealthy, creeping chill
That hangs about the morning still?”
    Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: 
    “Some one saunters up the vale,
    Pauses at the brook awhile,
    Dawdles at the meadow stile—­
    Well! if loitering be a crime,
    Some one takes his own sweet time!

“So!  Berry, so!  Now, cherry-blow,
  Keep your pink nose out of the pail! 
How dull the morning is—­how low
  The churning vapors coil and trail! 
How dim the sky, and far away! 
What ails the sunshine and the day?”
    Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: 
    “But for that preposterous tale
    Nancy Mixer brought from town,
    ‘Tom is courting Kitty Brown,’
    I’d not walked with Willie Snow,
    Just to tease my Tom, you know!

“So! stand still, my thistledown! 
  Tom is coming thro’ the gate,
But his forehead wears a frown,
  And he never was so late! 
Till that vexing demon, Doubt,
Angered us, and we fell out!”
    Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: 
    “Tom roosts on the topmost rail,
    Chewing straws, and looking grim
    When I choose to peep at him;
    Wonder if he’s sulking still,
    All about my walk with Will?

“Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite,
  Hasten fieldward, every one;
All the heavens are growing bright,
  And the milking time is done;
I will speak to him, and see
If his lordship answers me: 
    ‘Tom!’ He tumbles off the rail,