Hansel:  Tell me, Ilka on the hill-top,
                    While the blushing roses blow,
                    Are thy lips as sweet for kissing
                    As they were a year ago?
    Both:  Hohli-ohli, etc.

    Ilka:  Naughty Hansel in the valley,
                    Naughty Hansel, tell me true,
                    If my lips are sweet for kissing,
                    What is that, I pray, to you?
    Both:  Hohli-ohli, etc.

    Hansel:  Tell me, Ilka on the hill-top,
                    While the rivers seaward flow,
                    Is thy heart as true and loving
                    As it was a year ago?
    Both:  Hohli-ohli, etc.

    Ilka:  Dearest Hansel in the valley,
                    I will tell you, tell you true. 
                    Yes, my heart is ever loving,
                    True and loving unto you!
    Both:  Hohli-ohli-ohli-ho! 
                        Hohli-ohli-ohli-ho!  Hohli-oh!

For a few moments their united voices seemed still to be quivering in the air, then to be borne softly away by the echoes into the cool distance of the glaciers.  A solitary thrush began to warble on a low branch of a stunted fir-tree, and a grasshopper raised its shrill voice in emulation.  The sun was near its setting; the bluish evening shadows crept up the sides of the ice-peaks, whose summits were still flushed with expiring tints of purple and red.

Mr. Hahn rose, yawned and stretched his limbs.  Fritz threw the burning stump of his cigar into the depths of the ravine, and stood watching it with lazy interest while it fell.  The guide cleared away the remnants of the repast and began to resaddle the horses.

“Who was that girl we heard singing up on the Alp?” said Mr. Hahn, with well-feigned indifference, as he put his foot in the stirrup and made a futile effort to mount.  “Curse the mare, why don’t you make her stand still?”

“Pardon, your honor,” answered the guide stolidly; “but she isn’t used to the saddle.  The girl’s name is Ilka on the Hill-top.  She is the best singer in all the valley.”

“Ilka on the Hill-top!  How—­where does she live?”

“She lives on a farm called the Hill-top, a mile and a half from Mayrhofen.”

“And the man who answered—­is he her sweetheart?”

“Yes, your honor.  They have grown up together, and they mean to marry some time, when they get money enough to buy out the old woman.”

“And what did you say his name was?”

“Hansel the Hunter.  He is a garnet polisher by trade, because his father was that before him; but he is a good shot and likes roving in the woods better than polishing stones.”

“Hm,” grumbled Mr. Hahn, mounting with a prodigious effort.