She was working a slipper; but she didn’t like that;
She sang a little melody, that wouldn’t do;
She tried to read a little, then she played with the cat,
And then commenced a note—“Dearest, Why didn’t you—?”
And then she tore it up, and then tried to keep still
And watch the spent sun till he dropped behind the hill.
He was reading a novel, but he didn’t like that,
So he took down his fishing rod, that wouldn’t do;
Then he whistled to his dog, then he put on his hat,
And then commenced a note—“Dearest, Why didn’t you—?”
And then he tore it up, and then tried to keep still
And watch the spent sun till he dropped behind the hill.
The sun dropped out of sight, and she walked up the lane;
He too, quite by chance, of course, came along;
So they met, and they stopped: not a look would either deign:
Then he said—nothing, and naught had she to say.
At last he look’d up at her, and she look’d up too—
“Why didn’t you—Dearest?”—“Dearest, why didn’t you—?”