High up, between the fresh tree boughs, the swings fly.

Are those two lovers floating up there?
A current of air seizes the girl's dress and shawl, the young man flings his arm round her waist; it is for safety: there is then less danger.

At the foot of the hill there is cooking and roasting going on; it seems a complete gypsy-camp.

Under the tree sits the old Jew--this is precisely his fiftieth jubilee; through a whole half-century has he sung here his comical Doctor's song.

Now that we are reading this he is dead; that characteristic countenance is dust, those speaking eyes are closed, his song forgotten tones.