The wind blew harder; the girls' muslin skirts clung to their limbs as they moved against it, and flew out around their heels in fluttering ruffles.

The cherry boughs tossed over their heads full of crisp whispers among their dark leaves and red fruit clusters.

Over across the field, under the low-swaying boughs, showed the old red wall of the tavern, and against it a great mass of blooming phlox, all vague with distance like purple smoke.

Over on the left, fence rails glistened purple in the sun and wind--a bluebird sat on a crumbling post and sang.

But the young men and girls playing Copenhagen saw and heard nothing of these things.
They heard only that one note of love which all unwittingly, and whether they would or not, they sang to each other through all the merry game.