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Á sombra tecida,
D' espeso zreixal,
Muy ledo e folloso,
No tempo do vran;
En donde se sente,
Un doce zolás,
S' o vento antr' as follas,
Asopra quezáis;
(Tan ledo, que sempre
Frescura alí hai);
A garrida Ousinde,
Alegre sin par,
Rapaceta nova,
De tan curta edá,
Que segas catorce,
Non pode contar;
Ós niños andando,
C' o deño de Jan,
Dill' éste a meniña,
C' un doce mirar,
De pillo raposo:
¡Que de zreixas hai,
¡Que lindas, vermellas,
E ledas están!
Agora he o tempo
Das zreixas pillar.
E díxolle rindo,
A tenra beldá;
—Pois sube abranguélas,
Se che gusto dan.
—Non podo, estou coxo,
Non podo aganchar;
Subir tí puderas,
Que estás muy ben san,
Ligeira e gordecha,
Com' un pas-pallás;
E tés uns cachetes,
Com' unhas mazans.
—Eu subo, pró mira,
Non has de mirar...
E Jan lle contesta;
—Corrente, ben 'sta;
E logo o gran pillo,
Tumbóuse no chan.
Já sobe a meniña,
Ligeira sin par,
Já toca a espesura
Do alto zreixaI;
E cando mais leda,
Na faena está,
Collendo cereixas,
C' un doce cantar,
C' os ollos lagartos,
O deño de Jan,
Non sei para donde,
Se puxo a mirar.
Mais cólleo a rapaza,
No furto desleal,
E póndose acesa,
Como unha mazan,
Chorando e sorrindo,
Con grácia sin par,
Lle dí incomodada:
—Táte quedo, Jan,
Non... pois ten juicio,
Pois n' has de mirar:
Mira, eso non serve,
Pois eso non val.
—Pois vaya, non miro,
Lle dixo o rapás
Con sorna...
—Pois juróo,
Que n' has de mirar...
—Bofellas ó juro,
Plo santo San Joan..
—Mentira, pois tapa
Os ollos cas mans.
E por compracéla,
Aquel taleigan,
Tapou obedente,
Os ollos cas mans.
As zreixas a nena,
Volvía a pillar,
Apartando as follas,
C' a pequena man;
Mais, sin qu' ela o vise,
O diaño rapás,
Entrabrindo os dedos,
D' entrambas as mans,
Astuto, as furtadas,
Volvío á mirar.
Mais ela collendóo,
No furto desleal,
Lle dixo poñéndose,
Acesa ainda mais,
E linda, qu' as zreixas,
Que tiña na man;
E c' unha corraxe,
Donosa en verdá,
(Acaso deverias,
Fingido quezáis.)
—Fáltache a palabra...
Táte quedo, Jan;
Non... pois ten juicio;
Non has de mirar...
Mira, eso non serve,
Pois eso non val.
E toda asañada,
Baixóu do zreixal.
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In the shade knitted
By a thickset cherry tree
Leafy and very pleasing
In the summertime—
Where one feels a sense
Of sweet relaxation
If the wind should blow
So blithe through
The leaves for it is always
Refreshingly cool there—
A good-looking Ousinde
Gladsome like no other—
A young adolescent girl
Of years so few that
They do not add up
To fourteen harvests—
On the prowl for bird nests
With impish John...
Says he to the lassie
With a sweet look
Of artful rascal,
"How many cherries there are!
How pretty, red
And delightful they are!
Now is the season
For picking cherries..."
And the callow beauty
Said to him laughing,
"Then go up and pick them
If you like them."
"I can't, I'm limping,
I can't climb.
You could go up because
You are very healthy,
Nimble and plump
Like a quail
And you have cheeks
Like red apples."
"I will, but see here:
You mustn't watch..."
And John replies,
"Au courant, okay."
And then the great rascal
Laid himself down on the ground.
Straightaway the lassie climbs
Agile like no other,
Already she touches the foliage
Of the lofty cherry tree
And when she is happiest
At the task
Of picking cherries
With a sweet song
I don't know in what direction
Impish John
Started to peer
With the eyes of a lizard.
But the girl caught him
At the disloyal caper
And lighting up
Like a red apple,
Crying and smiling
With unequalled charm,
Scolds him,
"Be still, John.
No...then be sensible
Because you mustn't watch.
See, that isn't right
Because that isn't legal."
"All right, I won't look,"
Replied the boy
Tongue in cheek...
"Then swear it:
That you won't watch..."
"Cross my heart I swear it
By the sainted saint John..."
"That's a lie. Cover the eyes
With the hands then."
And to please her
That rapscallion
Covered the eyes
With the hands obediently.
The lassie returned
To picking cherries,
Pushing back the leaves
With the small hand,
But without her being aware
The impish lad
Went back to
Watching on the sly
Astutely setting the fingers
Of both hands ajar.
But she, catching him
At the disloyal caper,
Lighting up even more
Than before
And prettier than the cherries
She held in her hand
And with a temper
Truly captivating—
Possibly genuine,
Feigned perhaps—told him,
"You broke your word...
"Be still, John.
No...then be sensible,
You mustn't watch.
See, that isn't right
Because that isn't legal."
And with a lot of spunk
She came down off the cherry tree.
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