My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings Its good-night lyric to the lake; A skiff glides by on slender wings With scarce a ripple in its wake; And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, Float idly in an ideal world.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Why, this is strange, I trow!

The skiff bow suddenly plunged into a wall of green-and-purple bloom.

"Wouldn't you?" Before she could answer, the steamer came abreast of them, and so close that the swell from its screw set the slight, narrow skiff dancing and plunging on the waves.

Yeh go lower away on the skiff davits.