“But Mauve is not dead! When we walk in those pretty country lanes under the birch trees, with their silvery leaves and pearly aspect; when we watch the sun caressing the green meadows and playing about among the branches of the willow, or over the alder and hazel trees; when we hear the echo of the tinkling bell of the sheep on the heath, we say: 'Mauve lives, he is here, he is here!'”