ising him, so he said lightly: "It is no so great a
matter as some think; what is most needed is a good heart and a quick
eye. Thus I slew the three of them."

"O," she said, "now I know that thou art that fair child and champion
of whom I have heard tell, that thy deed was a wonder; and now thou
art so kind that thou wilt wear the day talking to a poor and feeble
maiden."

Said he: "I do that because it is my will and it pleases me to see
thee and talk to thee, for thou art good to look at and dear."

Then she said: "But what else canst thou do, Champion?" Said he: "Of
late I am thought to be somewhat deft at shooting in the bow, so that
whatso I aim at, that I hit. Thus I am not like to lack for meat."
"Yea," she said, "but that is wonderful; and besides, now canst thou
shoot at the wolves from afar without their being able to come at thee
to bite thee. But now it is hard to get thee to tell of thy prowess,
and I must ask after every deal. Tell me of something else." Quoth he:
"At home they deem me somewhat of a scald, so that I can smithy out
staves." She clapped her hands together and cried: "Now that is good
indeed, since thou canst also slay wolves. But how sweet it would be
for me to have thee making a stave before me now. Wouldst thou?"

"I wot not," he said, laughing; "but let me try." So he sat down and
fell to conning his rhymes, while she stood looking on from across the
water. At last he stood up and sang:

Now the grass groweth free
And the lily's on lea,
And the April-tide green
Is full goodly beseen,
And far behind
Lies the winter blind,
And the lord of the Gale
Is shadowy pale;
And thou, linden be-blossomed, with bed of the worm
Camest forth from the dark house as spring from the storm.

O barm-cloth tree,
The light is in thee,
And as spring-tide shines
Through the lily lines,
So forth from thine heart
Through thy red lips apart
Came words and love
To wolf-bane's grove,
And the shaker of battle-board blesseth the Earth
For the love and the longing, kind craving and mirth.

May I forget
The grass spring-wet
And the quivering stem
On the brooklet's hem,
And the brake thrust up
And the saffron's cup,
Each fashioned thing
From the heart of Spring,
Long ere I forget it, the house of thy word
And the doors of thy learning, the roof of speech-hoard.

When thou art away
In