I WOO THEE, SPRING.
———
BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE.
———
I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a kindly-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang sunny day!When young loves bud and old loves bloom—When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom,And bees hum summerly.I woo thine ears to a kindly tale,And what shall the story be?I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail,And that stars and flowers flee.I will tell thee a tale of woful wingsThat rive from the soul its precious things,And shadow sweet fantasy.I will tell thee of some that have fled awaySince last we saw thy face;And some that are gone from the sheeny dayTo the lonesome burial-place.And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,That sleep with the buried grace.O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a sadly-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang cloudy day!For the lone day dies through purple bars—And a misty grief enwraps the stars,And our hopes are ashen-gray.But the flowers bud and the flowers blowAnd the mossy streams are sheen,And the downy clouds to the Norland go,While the blue sky laughs between;And the light without, to the dark within,Would seem to say—“Will ye up and winWhile the paths of life are green?”But the outer joy on the soul’s annoyLooks in and laughs in vain—For the inner chains of the spirit’s painsMay ne’er be reft in twain;And the song that erst in joy begunSinks into wail ere the setting sun,A sad and deathful strain.So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a dreary-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang weary day!Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night—When no golden star’s in the lift alight,To brighten a weary way.
I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a kindly-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang sunny day!When young loves bud and old loves bloom—When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom,And bees hum summerly.I woo thine ears to a kindly tale,And what shall the story be?I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail,And that stars and flowers flee.I will tell thee a tale of woful wingsThat rive from the soul its precious things,And shadow sweet fantasy.I will tell thee of some that have fled awaySince last we saw thy face;And some that are gone from the sheeny dayTo the lonesome burial-place.And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,That sleep with the buried grace.O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a sadly-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang cloudy day!For the lone day dies through purple bars—And a misty grief enwraps the stars,And our hopes are ashen-gray.But the flowers bud and the flowers blowAnd the mossy streams are sheen,And the downy clouds to the Norland go,While the blue sky laughs between;And the light without, to the dark within,Would seem to say—“Will ye up and winWhile the paths of life are green?”But the outer joy on the soul’s annoyLooks in and laughs in vain—For the inner chains of the spirit’s painsMay ne’er be reft in twain;And the song that erst in joy begunSinks into wail ere the setting sun,A sad and deathful strain.So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a dreary-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang weary day!Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night—When no golden star’s in the lift alight,To brighten a weary way.
I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a kindly-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang sunny day!When young loves bud and old loves bloom—When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom,And bees hum summerly.
I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a kindly-thoughted lay,
And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang sunny day!
When young loves bud and old loves bloom—
When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom,
And bees hum summerly.
I woo thine ears to a kindly tale,And what shall the story be?I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail,And that stars and flowers flee.I will tell thee a tale of woful wingsThat rive from the soul its precious things,And shadow sweet fantasy.
I woo thine ears to a kindly tale,
And what shall the story be?
I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail,
And that stars and flowers flee.
I will tell thee a tale of woful wings
That rive from the soul its precious things,
And shadow sweet fantasy.
I will tell thee of some that have fled awaySince last we saw thy face;And some that are gone from the sheeny dayTo the lonesome burial-place.And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,That sleep with the buried grace.
I will tell thee of some that have fled away
Since last we saw thy face;
And some that are gone from the sheeny day
To the lonesome burial-place.
And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—
Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,
That sleep with the buried grace.
O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a sadly-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang cloudy day!For the lone day dies through purple bars—And a misty grief enwraps the stars,And our hopes are ashen-gray.
O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a sadly-thoughted lay,
And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang cloudy day!
For the lone day dies through purple bars—
And a misty grief enwraps the stars,
And our hopes are ashen-gray.
But the flowers bud and the flowers blowAnd the mossy streams are sheen,And the downy clouds to the Norland go,While the blue sky laughs between;And the light without, to the dark within,Would seem to say—“Will ye up and winWhile the paths of life are green?”
But the flowers bud and the flowers blow
And the mossy streams are sheen,
And the downy clouds to the Norland go,
While the blue sky laughs between;
And the light without, to the dark within,
Would seem to say—“Will ye up and win
While the paths of life are green?”
But the outer joy on the soul’s annoyLooks in and laughs in vain—For the inner chains of the spirit’s painsMay ne’er be reft in twain;And the song that erst in joy begunSinks into wail ere the setting sun,A sad and deathful strain.
But the outer joy on the soul’s annoy
Looks in and laughs in vain—
For the inner chains of the spirit’s pains
May ne’er be reft in twain;
And the song that erst in joy begun
Sinks into wail ere the setting sun,
A sad and deathful strain.
So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,To a dreary-thoughted lay,And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,Through the lee-lang weary day!Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night—When no golden star’s in the lift alight,To brighten a weary way.
So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a dreary-thoughted lay,
And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang weary day!
Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night—
When no golden star’s in the lift alight,
To brighten a weary way.
SONG.
———
BY L. L. M.
———
When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed,When pearl drops bow each taper leaf,And e’en the lily’s queenly headPays homage to the glory brief—Who ever recks of coming night,Or grieves that such an hour must be—Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blightWhile summer decks the dewy lea.The forest leaf now pale and sereOnce bent to roving breezes’ kiss;The faded flower on Autumn’s bierOnce seemed too gayly bright for this,Nor did they droop and whisper allOf mildew dank, of frost and blight;But ever rang the wild-wood hallWith joyous song and murmur light.And grievestthou, dear one, that lifeIs but a dream that soon is past?Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife,The shadows on thy pathway cast?Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone;The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow;Though night and death are stealing on,Forget not, love, ’tis morningnow!
When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed,When pearl drops bow each taper leaf,And e’en the lily’s queenly headPays homage to the glory brief—Who ever recks of coming night,Or grieves that such an hour must be—Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blightWhile summer decks the dewy lea.The forest leaf now pale and sereOnce bent to roving breezes’ kiss;The faded flower on Autumn’s bierOnce seemed too gayly bright for this,Nor did they droop and whisper allOf mildew dank, of frost and blight;But ever rang the wild-wood hallWith joyous song and murmur light.And grievestthou, dear one, that lifeIs but a dream that soon is past?Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife,The shadows on thy pathway cast?Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone;The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow;Though night and death are stealing on,Forget not, love, ’tis morningnow!
When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed,When pearl drops bow each taper leaf,And e’en the lily’s queenly headPays homage to the glory brief—Who ever recks of coming night,Or grieves that such an hour must be—Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blightWhile summer decks the dewy lea.
When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed,
When pearl drops bow each taper leaf,
And e’en the lily’s queenly head
Pays homage to the glory brief—
Who ever recks of coming night,
Or grieves that such an hour must be—
Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blight
While summer decks the dewy lea.
The forest leaf now pale and sereOnce bent to roving breezes’ kiss;The faded flower on Autumn’s bierOnce seemed too gayly bright for this,Nor did they droop and whisper allOf mildew dank, of frost and blight;But ever rang the wild-wood hallWith joyous song and murmur light.
The forest leaf now pale and sere
Once bent to roving breezes’ kiss;
The faded flower on Autumn’s bier
Once seemed too gayly bright for this,
Nor did they droop and whisper all
Of mildew dank, of frost and blight;
But ever rang the wild-wood hall
With joyous song and murmur light.
And grievestthou, dear one, that lifeIs but a dream that soon is past?Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife,The shadows on thy pathway cast?Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone;The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow;Though night and death are stealing on,Forget not, love, ’tis morningnow!
And grievestthou, dear one, that life
Is but a dream that soon is past?
Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife,
The shadows on thy pathway cast?
Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone;
The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow;
Though night and death are stealing on,
Forget not, love, ’tis morningnow!
TWO WAYS TO MANAGE.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CLOVERNOOK.”
———
It was night, black night all over the world, and denser night within the dwelling of Margery Starveling. Now and then, the half-moon broke through the clouds that obscured the face of heaven, and some straggling and uncertain beams slanting through the narrow south window, gave to the low, homely apartment a ghostly sort of glow that was gloomier to see than the dark. Yet the night was one to make timid hearts beat quick, especially in a dismal old house, where there was no light save occasional glimpses of the half-moon. But Margery was not afraid—she was used to darkness and solitude, and needed not the interchange of humanities for her comfort, else she would have aroused from the sleep which had fallen upon her, the child, who—with cheek leaned against the rough stone jam—was alike unconscious of the dark, and the rats gnawing hungrily at the floor, or loosening the hearth beneath her feet. It may be that bright dreams came to her, even there, for what shall stay them from innocence? and the rough jam may have seemed a pillow of down, and the chill moonlight, as it fell against her, the golden curtaining of a pleasant couch.
All was quiet within doors, save the digging and the gnawing I have mentioned, but in the woods that partly encircled the place, and darkened close against the western gables, the winds went blindly moaning up and down, and the dead boughs creaked against each other, filling the time with music when the ill-boding owls muffled themselves away.
It was very still in the house, I said, for though Margery was busy, her work made no noise, till laying aside the great fleece of wool from her knees, which her skinny fingers had been picking apart, she spoke aloud, and on this wise—
“I will stir with my staff the embers from which the glow is well-nigh perished, that my child may feel in her sleep its comfortable influence, for evil dreams may come of unrest, and evil dreams make evil thoughts, and when they have once taken possession of the heart, how hardly are they charmed away.” So, having taken the fleece from her knees and laid it over a wooden stool at her feet, she arose, and fumbling in the chimney-corner opposite to that where the child slept, produced a great knotty staff, the lower end of which was blackened and charred. With this she stirred the gray ashes from the fiery log that lay beneath, and beating and breaking it into coals, gathered the dry cinders together that were scattered about, and having spread them over the freshly-broken coals, a blaze sprung up, slight and blue at first, but reddening and deepening till the rafters over-head, and the oak slabs below, the walnut bedstead in the corner, with its antique carving, and elaborately wrought tester, and the huge chest with its iron padlock, the wrinkled visage of the old woman, and the pale hair and plump, naked feet of the child, were all distinctly visible.
“Charity, my pretty darling,” called the old woman, as she resumed her seat and the fleece of wool, “Wake, and betake thee to thy wheel for an hour, and I will tell thee of the plan I have made to keep our house full of cheer and music all the while, even when thou weariest of the wheel, and thy tongue prattlest not.”
The child rubbed her eyes, lifted her head from the stone jam, saying in a voice sweet and plaintive, as we sometimes hear a bird’s—
“I have spun my task, grandam—six wisps of flax into as many hanks of thread, and thou seest my distaff is naked—but I will wind it with another wisp and spin, at least till thy task is done.”
Her naked feet pattered across the slab floor, and climbing on a ladder, she took from a peg in the rafter a fresh wisp, and as she wound the distaff peered through the south window at the half-moon, or rather at the yellowish color in the clouds behind which the half-moon was concealed.
“It wears near the midnight, good grandam,” she said, shoving her wheel aside: “I will pick on the fleece, and so thy voice will not be drowned as thou tellest the plan thou hast mused of.”
“As thou sayest,” answered Margery, “it wears near the midnight, as is told by the shrill cry of the cricket, to say nothing of the aching in my bones, and the dizzy feeling that creeps along my forehead now and then;” and laying her skinny fingers over the wrinkles on her brow, she bowed her head forward for a minute, looking more like a witch making some unholy incantation, than a live human being, and a woman as she was. Her dress, summer and winter, was composed of cow-hide shoes, clasped over the ankles with buckles of brass, a gown of dark woolen stuff, made in a straight, stiff fashion peculiar to herself, and she wore over her shoulders a small circular cape, that had once been part of a tiger’s hide. On her head she wore no cap or other covering, and her gray hair was parted on the crown and combed either way, one half being cut in a straight line above her forehead, and the other on her neck.
She seemed seventy, or thereabout—nevertheless, her hair was neither thin nor very white.
“Thou hast wrought too hardly, grandam, mayhap,” said the child. “Fold up thy hands now, and the portion of the fleece that remaineth be mine to do;” as she spoke, she wound her arm about the neck of Margery, for she loved her, albeit she looked so repelling.
“Nay, child,” answered the dame, “it is not often we have so pleasant a light, and pity ’twere to lose it. We must improve the advantages we have, little one, else want will be staring us in the face, and reproaching us with negligence when it is too late. I cannot work as I could with forty years less weighing me down, so I must do what I may.”
“I saw,” said the child, “when I went to Farmer Jocelin’s, for the measure of meal thou wottest of, three good tallow-candles alight in one room. The noonday sun were scarce brighter,” she continued in amazement, both at the wondrous light and the prodigality. “He must have great estates, grandam, to maintain such indolent and luxurious life. True, Mistress Jocelin was at work with some knitting, but not heedfully nor diligently, but more attentive to the reading of a book, which, indeed, to look upon was very beautiful, for as Farmer Jocelin held it near the light, the edges of the leaves glittered like gold, and the leathern cover was bright as the bosom of the bird that sings in the peach-tree, here, in summer. But Master Lawrence—what, think you, he did by all that flood of light? Why, nothing for thrift; for he sat on the matting of the floor, cutting pieces of smooth brown paper into a kite. Yet he had a sweet smile, and seemed to have a good heart withal,” added Charity, and her fingers flew more nimbly through the wool, “for as he served round a salver of apples, at his mother’s bidding, he urged me to take one so earnestly, yet kindly, that I might scarce refuse, and when I did—for that I might not rob Farmer Jocelin of his substance, giving him nothing in turn—he forced one into my lap and ran laughingly aside, so that I might not return it.”
“Alas! alas!” said Margery, “have I reared thee thus carefully in vain, that when thou escapest from my sight, but for a moment, thou yieldest to sinful temptation, eating the fruit thou hast not earned.”
“Nay, grandam, thy conclusion is over-hasty. I kept the fruit unbruised and untasted, though its sweet fragrance made it hard to resist, and when the maid brought in the measure of meal, I gave it to her hand, and she restored it to the salver; but when Master Lawrence saw it, he looked as though he would have cried, even in such beautiful light, and with so much fair brown paper, to fashion as he would.”
“I am glad thou hast wit to serve thee upon occasion,” spoke Margery, her fingers flying nimbly as the child’s; “and if Farmer Jocelin burns three good tallow-candles at one time, and that at no merry-making or gala-night, his children will be the likelier to sit in the light of fagots—and Master Lawrence was wastefully cutting smooth brown paper. I am glad thou hadst wit to refuse the apple, but thou shouldst have frowned smartly the while. If I see the young scapegrace this way, as belike he may come, with further temptations, I will make my tongue as a chisel, cutting such a lesson of wisdom and reproof upon his heart, as he hath never heard, mayhap.”
“But Master Lawrence meant kindly,” said Charity, and casting down her eyes, she continued, “if we cannot burn tallow-candles, we, at least, may have the light of dry sticks—shall I not gather more to keep light as thou tellest the plan thou hast? I would it could make our home cheery as good candle-light, and a salver of apples, with rinds all russet and red and yellow.”
“It were good thou hadst not seen the apples,” spoke the dame, querulously; “better still thou hadst not seen the boy.”
“But the plan, grandam—thou forgettest the plan. Is it that the famous chopper, Patrick Malony, is to come and fell one of the great hickory or maple trees of which the wood is full; and are we to have a huge log, and big, smoothly split sticks to fill the great empty fire-place every night with light and warmth; or meanest thou once more to saddle Lily-lace, the mare, and ride to the mill with a full bag of wheat; and am I to go to the market-town once more, in my black kirtle and straw hat, and bring home in exchange, for my basket of eggs, butcher’s meat to broil on the coals, and fragrant tea to fill the little china cups, with tobacco for thy long empty pipe—in faith, grandam, have I not guessed shrewdly?”
“My pretty darling, I see thou hast thy head filled with the wildest extravagance; thou wilt be teasing next for a farthingale of dimity, ruffles of lace, and blue ribbons for thy hat, or other such like gear. Thy guesses tally not with prudence, Charity; thou mayest guess again.”
“Ay, then,” said the girl, sorrowfully, “I was wrong from the saddling of Lily-face to the full pipe of tobacco;” and casting her eyes about the cold, empty room, she continued, with greater energy—“I have the very pith of thy thought. Thou wilt unlock the great chest, and take thence the dainty linen sheets and the thick wool blankets thy hands have wrought from fleece and flax, and make the bed—wherein we now shiver the night through, ridden with nightmares and plagued with ugly dreams—into beauty and comfort. Surely I have guessed thy plan, for the moth is more wasting than the wear.”
“Foolish child, thy extravagance would be the ruin of me, though I gave thee management of my affairs but for a day. Were the sheets of linen and blankets of wool to be used as thou sayest, the chest would soon be empty, and then how should we fare?”
“As well as now,” thought Charity, but she spoke not, save to say—“that she should guess no more.”
“Once more, little one,” and Margery patted the child on the head with one hand, and taking the great staff in the other, she stirred open the coals vigorously, and as the light flashed upon the girl’s cheek, tears, large and bright, were seen to stand there, like drops of dew on a lily.
But the old woman urged her to renew her guess with such earnestness and tenderness that, brushing away the tears, she essayed once again; but the fervor was gone from her tone, and the light from her glance, as she said—
“Thou hast planned the mending of the door and window, that the snow may not drive to great ridges across the floor, and the wind and the rain beat against us as we sleep.”
“Not so,” answered Margery. “While the winter blows the larger crevices may be stopped with straw, and the smaller ones with clay, both of which may be easily removed when the May Queen is dancing on the hills, and our house be the pleasanter for free air and streaks of sunshine.”
“It may all do very well,” said Charity, “but to-night I can see nothing so pleasant as great log-fires, tallow-candles, and a salver of red apples; and, mayhap, it would take Master Lawrence to complete the picture.”
“Burned not thy cheek to speak it?” continued Margery, peevishly: and the two wrought at the fleece for a time in silence.
“Thou knowest Lily-face?” said the ancient dame, at length, “that she groweth old and stiff of limb; thou canst not remember the time when she nibbled not in my pastures; I think belike, also, she fadeth in the sight of her right eye, for when, at the last Christmas time, I rode her to the mill, my old bones were jeopardized by her stumbling, and often turning of her head to one side, betrayed her defect of vision. But though she were sound as the silver coin that lieth in the bottom of the chest, yonder, I must needs barter her away, for that she eateth more than she earneth, since I may no more buckle round her the girth.
“Thou requirest much exercise in thy growing, Charity, to keep supple thy joints—thou canst sometimes walk to the market-town for our absolute wants, which are not many, and as for the wheat-grist, thou shalt have a mortar and beat it into flour; so Lily-face would but burden us now, and the corn and the oat-sheaves, and the hay that have been heaped in her manger, may be sold.
“One beast is enough for a poor body like me, and thou knowest I will neither barter nor sell Wolf-slayer till the time cometh for the nailing of the boards to my coffin. And forget not, Charity, that they lie in the loft, well-seasoned for the using, and for thy life, let them not buy others in their stead.”
“Far away be the time, good grandam,” sighed the girl. “But the young die, too; and should I need them first, wilt thou not keep a light, at least of fagots, the whiles I am dead in the house?”
Foolish child! though it were darker than tempest may make it, and I the while slept never so sound, no harm could come to thy white corse, if Wolf-slayer lay by thy coffin.
At the sound of her name, a great black beast, with eyes burning like coals, and lean and shaggy, crept from the darkest corner of the room, and laying her head in the lap of Margery, licked her jaws and whined piteously. “Away with thee, saucy image,” growled the mistress, “thou hadst the third part of a corn-ear at the sunset, and thinkest thou, black wench, I will give thee more?” and crouching and whining the hungry beast slunk back to the corner, and curling herself together, filled the room presently with her snore.
“Poor Lily-face!” said the child, speaking as it were to herself, “how can I let thee go! Morning and evening, since I could toddle, I have put my arms around thy glossy neck, broken the ears of corn into small bits, and pressed the golden oat-sheaves through thy manger—and thou hast neighed and put thy face against mine, for thou lovest me, as I thee. Poor Lily-face! I cannot let thee go!”
“What if thou mightst look in the corner here and see the bright, shining face of a pretty clock instead of the cobwebs and the hanks of yarn—if thou couldst hear the pleasant tick, and ever and anon the musical ring of the hours—a clock, bethink thee, bright of color as the autumn oak-leaves, and tall as thy grandam.”
“It would be pretty and comforting, surely,” said the child, “for the ticking and the stroke of the hours would be company in the lonesome nights, but I would not give Lily-face, that knows me when I speak, and looks at me and loves me, to have a clock bright as the oaken autumn leaves, and tall as thou, grandam, in place of the hanks of yarn and the cobwebs.”
“Thou knowest not thy own mind,” said Dame Margery; “the clock will neither eat nor drink, but will tell us the time of day and night; which Lily-face hath not wit to do. By the light of the last sunset, I have no mind that she shall longer stamp in that stall of hers.
“The miller hath a clock,” she continued, “which ticked at his grandfather’s funeral, and hath kept the time of many funerals, and marriages, too, since; a pretty piece of mechanism, as I saw with my own eyes, and taller than I; and the miller wanteth the mare for the tread-wheel, and to have her his own, will barter the pretty clock.”
“It must be as thou sayest, but I have little pleasure in the plan,” said Charity. “Hath not the miller a milch cow that he would barter in place of the clock?”
“Thou growest officious,” answered the dame. “Would not the cow eat oats and corn as well as Lily-face? And have we not hitherto drunken water and flourished, and must we needs have milk?”
Charity spoke no more, but sat turning the wheel for pastime—for the fleece was finished, and the mind of the dame was not to be altered by childish fancies, as was manifest from her rising and removing the hanks of yarn to another peg, and brushing with her hand the cobwebs.
The wind kept moaning along the woods and rattled the broken door and window—the coals grew fainter and fainter and died, and the gray ashes blew over the feet of Margery and the child as they sat silently musing—the one of the pretty clock that it would cost nothing to keep, the other of poor Lily-face; haply at times there came a thought of the log-fire and the tallow-candles, and the salver of red apples which Master Lawrence had served with such a sweet grace.
The next day came the miller, and wrapt in a great bed-quilt and laid in the bottom of his cart was the clock. Margery clapt her hands in glee when she saw it, but Charity sighed as she sat close on the hearth-stone for the sake of its little warmth, though she felt not the cold now. Faster and faster spun round the wheel, and lower and lower she bowed down her head to conceal the tears—but it would not do. When she heard the neigh of poor Lily-face, and knew that her hands would never feed her any more, she hurried to the window, and pressing her face against the pane, she could see her dear pet shrinking consciously from the hand that tied the strong rope about her neck and led her away. Margery was busy with dusting the bright face of her pretty clock, and looked not forth even when the long-drawn howl of Wolf-slayer (who, lifting her fore paws on the clapboard gate, manifested her sorrow as a dumb brute may) smote dismally upon her ears.
The days came and went and Charity spun on the same, but Margery brought forth no new fleece. Scarcely had she stirred or spoken since the treasure came—even when the girl heaped on dry sticks and broken branches till the warmth filled all the house, she did not reprove.
Then Charity bethought her that the old dame had scarcely tasted food for days, and looking upon her, she saw that her eyes waxed dim and her countenance pale, and a great fear came over the child’s heart; and setting aside her wheel, she ran fast to farmer Jocelin’s, and begged a cup of honey and a pitcher of sweet milk, telling of the strange disorder that possessed Dame Margery.
As she went homeward, Master Lawrence ran from his work in the field and bore the pitcher of milk, and comforted her with hopes that her grandam was less ill than she feared.
Without question Margery partook of the milk and honey; and when Lawrence brought sticks and logs and heaped the fire, she laid her withered hand on his head and said, “Thou art a kind boy and good.” She then took a key from her bosom and told Charity to unlock the chest and bring forth blankets—as many as would keep her warm.
“Surely, grandam, thou art distraught,” said Charity, as she hastened to obey. But the sweet smile of intelligence that met her inquiring glance belied her fears; and as she wrapt the warm covering about the withered form, she said, “Nay, child, I am sane at last—but too late.”
At midnight she ceased to speak or to be conscious. Kind hands presently removed the thick covering, and spread over her a dainty white sheet; but she was warm enough; others brought from the loft the boards of seasoned walnut wood, and the next midnight Charity and Wolf-slayer—the one at the head and the other at the feet, watched by the old dame’s coffin.
The following day came the miller with Lily-face harnessed in his little cart; he went forward, and a train of neighbors followed—amongst them Charity, sorrowfulest of all.
When the summer came, she planted bright blossoming shrubs about the grave, and never in her life had Margery half so pretty a house as this narrow one.
The old house was given up to the rats and the winds, after the removal of the cheat, and the clock, and the hanks of yarn that hung all along the rafters. In course of time it fell into a heap; and one day, as Charity, who dwelt not far away, sat on the heap of stones where the hearth-stone had been, she saw a fair-faced youth searching up and down the lanes, over the meadows, and through the hedges hard-by, as though he missed something; but when he saw the girl, he left searching and bent his steps toward her, and as he came near she knew him for Master Lawrence—well grown, but with something of the boyish look and manners yet. The prettiest of all the lambs of the flock was gone, and though he had gone over all the pastures, he could not find it. The heart of Charity was touched, and leaving her sorrowful musing, she joined in the search.
Whether the stray lamb was found I know not, but as Charity crossed the fields to go homeward under the twilight’s reddening wing, her hair was full of daffodils and daisies, and a flush of wildering happiness was on her cheek, that had never been there before.
When the harvest was gathered and the orchard fruits weighing down the boughs, Charity rode to the market-town on a pretty brown jennet of her own; and as she went homeward the horns of her saddle were hung with great bundles; she had bought a white ribbon instead of a blue for the new straw hat her fingers had been braiding so busily—a muslin gown, that was white, too; a pair of pretty slippers, and a dozen other things that I have not time to enumerate—enough, that the next full moon shone upon Mistress Lawrence Jocelin.
Not a village maiden that would not have envied her but for her own happiness, for all joined in the merry-making; a dozen tallow-candles were burned at once, and more than one salver of red apples was served round, with loaf-cakes and sweetmeats, and ripe broken nuts. Workmen were employed to clear away the rubbish that had once been Dame Margery’s house, and a pretty new cottage soon rose in its place; and the next summer sweet shrubbery hedged it in, and myrtles and honeysuckles curtained the windows; bees made honey from the flowers, sleek cattle fed in the pastures, and in all the neighborhood there was no home so full of comfort and plenty.
The hanks of yarn which Charity had spun long ago were taken to the weaver’s and came back in rolls of damask and bright-flowered carpets; the linen was taken from the chest, and the wool blankets; and after being washed white as snow, and dried in the sun, were spread upon beds soft as down could make.
When the second winter came round, the cottage was a-glow with wood-fires and tallow-candles; and in place of the starved Wolf-slayer, there lay before the hearth, in a cradle of white willows, the plumpest and fairest baby that ever Lawrence and Charity Jocelin had seen.
THE PHANTOM FIELD.
———
BY O. I. VICTOR.
———
The snow lies deep upon the ground,All icy is the air;The trees a winding-sheet have foundBy the wild wind’s care.The beast stands trembling in his shed—The sheep within his fold:Without, all life is stiff and dead—Within, all chill and cold.Why is the air so cold to-night?The owl shrinks in his nest!Why does the moon gleam out so bright?The traveler is at rest!O, keen the wind and cold the airAbove the Phantom Field!Yet ghostly forms are stalking there,Armed with a sword and shield.And gathering slow in serried rank,They turn toward the west:Five thousand coffins guard each flank—Five hundred stand abreast.In battle rank, with noiseless tread,They hurry to the height,Where stand ten thousand other dead,Uncoffined for the fight.O, cold the wind and keen the airAround the Phantom Height!Yet spectre men are battling thereIn fierce, exultant fight.And shields are rent, and swords are bent,And limbs bestrew the ground,Yet skeletons, with strength unspent,Strike where a breast is found.And skulls are cleft on right and leftTill shines the morn o’erhead—Till twice five thousand coffins standAlone, flanking the dead.O, keen the wind and cold the airThat sweeps above the plain!Yet must the hollow coffins bearThe skeletons again.O’er the silent field they haste,To gather limb and bone:Though skulls and limbs are wide displaced,Each coffin knows its own.Soon every limb is gathered in—Soon every lid is fast—And falling into rank againThey turn toward the East.And marching o’er the frozen plain,With swift and gliding tread,They stand beside the graves againWhere sleep the evil dead.Two death’s-heads stand above each mound;A fearful watch they keep!The coffins sink into the ground,Another year to sleep.But when another year is fled—When comes St. Stephen’s night,The death’s-heads shall unloose their deadTo battle on the height.And when five hundred years have passed,The penance shall be done;The skeletons shall sleep at last,And moulder, limb and bone.
The snow lies deep upon the ground,All icy is the air;The trees a winding-sheet have foundBy the wild wind’s care.The beast stands trembling in his shed—The sheep within his fold:Without, all life is stiff and dead—Within, all chill and cold.Why is the air so cold to-night?The owl shrinks in his nest!Why does the moon gleam out so bright?The traveler is at rest!O, keen the wind and cold the airAbove the Phantom Field!Yet ghostly forms are stalking there,Armed with a sword and shield.And gathering slow in serried rank,They turn toward the west:Five thousand coffins guard each flank—Five hundred stand abreast.In battle rank, with noiseless tread,They hurry to the height,Where stand ten thousand other dead,Uncoffined for the fight.O, cold the wind and keen the airAround the Phantom Height!Yet spectre men are battling thereIn fierce, exultant fight.And shields are rent, and swords are bent,And limbs bestrew the ground,Yet skeletons, with strength unspent,Strike where a breast is found.And skulls are cleft on right and leftTill shines the morn o’erhead—Till twice five thousand coffins standAlone, flanking the dead.O, keen the wind and cold the airThat sweeps above the plain!Yet must the hollow coffins bearThe skeletons again.O’er the silent field they haste,To gather limb and bone:Though skulls and limbs are wide displaced,Each coffin knows its own.Soon every limb is gathered in—Soon every lid is fast—And falling into rank againThey turn toward the East.And marching o’er the frozen plain,With swift and gliding tread,They stand beside the graves againWhere sleep the evil dead.Two death’s-heads stand above each mound;A fearful watch they keep!The coffins sink into the ground,Another year to sleep.But when another year is fled—When comes St. Stephen’s night,The death’s-heads shall unloose their deadTo battle on the height.And when five hundred years have passed,The penance shall be done;The skeletons shall sleep at last,And moulder, limb and bone.
The snow lies deep upon the ground,All icy is the air;The trees a winding-sheet have foundBy the wild wind’s care.
The snow lies deep upon the ground,
All icy is the air;
The trees a winding-sheet have found
By the wild wind’s care.
The beast stands trembling in his shed—The sheep within his fold:Without, all life is stiff and dead—Within, all chill and cold.
The beast stands trembling in his shed—
The sheep within his fold:
Without, all life is stiff and dead—
Within, all chill and cold.
Why is the air so cold to-night?The owl shrinks in his nest!Why does the moon gleam out so bright?The traveler is at rest!
Why is the air so cold to-night?
The owl shrinks in his nest!
Why does the moon gleam out so bright?
The traveler is at rest!
O, keen the wind and cold the airAbove the Phantom Field!Yet ghostly forms are stalking there,Armed with a sword and shield.
O, keen the wind and cold the air
Above the Phantom Field!
Yet ghostly forms are stalking there,
Armed with a sword and shield.
And gathering slow in serried rank,They turn toward the west:Five thousand coffins guard each flank—Five hundred stand abreast.
And gathering slow in serried rank,
They turn toward the west:
Five thousand coffins guard each flank—
Five hundred stand abreast.
In battle rank, with noiseless tread,They hurry to the height,Where stand ten thousand other dead,Uncoffined for the fight.
In battle rank, with noiseless tread,
They hurry to the height,
Where stand ten thousand other dead,
Uncoffined for the fight.
O, cold the wind and keen the airAround the Phantom Height!Yet spectre men are battling thereIn fierce, exultant fight.
O, cold the wind and keen the air
Around the Phantom Height!
Yet spectre men are battling there
In fierce, exultant fight.
And shields are rent, and swords are bent,And limbs bestrew the ground,Yet skeletons, with strength unspent,Strike where a breast is found.
And shields are rent, and swords are bent,
And limbs bestrew the ground,
Yet skeletons, with strength unspent,
Strike where a breast is found.
And skulls are cleft on right and leftTill shines the morn o’erhead—Till twice five thousand coffins standAlone, flanking the dead.
And skulls are cleft on right and left
Till shines the morn o’erhead—
Till twice five thousand coffins stand
Alone, flanking the dead.
O, keen the wind and cold the airThat sweeps above the plain!Yet must the hollow coffins bearThe skeletons again.
O, keen the wind and cold the air
That sweeps above the plain!
Yet must the hollow coffins bear
The skeletons again.
O’er the silent field they haste,To gather limb and bone:Though skulls and limbs are wide displaced,Each coffin knows its own.
O’er the silent field they haste,
To gather limb and bone:
Though skulls and limbs are wide displaced,
Each coffin knows its own.
Soon every limb is gathered in—Soon every lid is fast—And falling into rank againThey turn toward the East.
Soon every limb is gathered in—
Soon every lid is fast—
And falling into rank again
They turn toward the East.
And marching o’er the frozen plain,With swift and gliding tread,They stand beside the graves againWhere sleep the evil dead.
And marching o’er the frozen plain,
With swift and gliding tread,
They stand beside the graves again
Where sleep the evil dead.
Two death’s-heads stand above each mound;A fearful watch they keep!The coffins sink into the ground,Another year to sleep.
Two death’s-heads stand above each mound;
A fearful watch they keep!
The coffins sink into the ground,
Another year to sleep.
But when another year is fled—When comes St. Stephen’s night,The death’s-heads shall unloose their deadTo battle on the height.
But when another year is fled—
When comes St. Stephen’s night,
The death’s-heads shall unloose their dead
To battle on the height.
And when five hundred years have passed,The penance shall be done;The skeletons shall sleep at last,And moulder, limb and bone.
And when five hundred years have passed,
The penance shall be done;
The skeletons shall sleep at last,
And moulder, limb and bone.
SHAKSPEARE.
———
BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.
———
What more extolling from the tongue of Fame
Can Shakspeare need than his suggested name;
Who, in a volume so compactly writ,
Has hived the honey of all human wit.
Praise suits where merit in a corner lies,
But seems uncomely to th’acknowledged wise—
Praise suits where laboring art at times succeeds,
And the shrewd reader pardons as he reads;
But fails—in wonder—where the leaves dispense
Infinite resource of intelligence—
Where the great player, at his game of chess,
Frolicks through all to glorious success;
Thrids, with exulting ken, a boundless maze,
Plays with his kings, and kings it in his plays.
Swan of the Avon—genius of the Thames,
“That so didst take Eliza and [king] James;”
Muse of so vast a flight, so ample pinion,
Whose name is as the name of a dominion!
Though kings be great, give glory to the pen,
A whole-souled poet is the king of men.
King and high-priest one bard, at least, has been
Lo! where we lesser Levites pause and quail.
How grandly goes before, within the vail,
Our great Melchisedek, without compeers,
Without progenitor nor end of years.
THE MASTER’S MATE’S YARN.
———
BY H. MILNOR KLAPP.
———
(Concluded from page 539.)
“They—the rats, of course—were a strange, heathenish set, and no respecters of persons, but first chased the cat on shore, and then made a hurra’s nest of the cabin—polishing their long whiskers with spermaceti—planning surprise-parties in the pantry—running to’gallant races over your nose in the sleeping-berths, and gauging every hollow vessel in the ship, with tails a fathom long, from the oil-casks and the scuttle-butt down to the pickle-jars and the captain’s barrel of New England. They were a sleek, long-bodied race, as black as imps of darkness, and as fearless as if they possessed as many reputed lives as grimalkin herself. I was weary of watching their capers, and of the sound of Catherton’s tread, expecting him every moment to call me up; when turning in my berth, I noticed that the after-cabin door was standing open. While I was wondering at this, a feeling of awe stole over me, thinking of the conversation I had overheard among the men the night before, and that very moment, as I was looking intently at the spot, a figure in white passed swiftly and silently out of the store-room into the cabin, closing the door behind it. I would afterward have given worlds to have been able to pursue it, but could not, for the power to move a limb was dead for the time being, and I lay still staring after it, with mouth agape and the cold drops on my forehead, palsied, as it would seem, by that sort of instinctive abhorrence with which humanity revolts against a disembodied spirit that has assumed, for some mysterious end, the form and garniture of its house of clay. It was a woman’s shape—the head bare, and the long dark hair hanging down to the waist, and, before the door closed, the light for an instant flickered on the face, ghastly and white—as the man-of-war’s man had said—with the mouth closed and the lips drawn tightly in. Its back was toward my berth, until it turned into the after-cabin, and it seemed to me that it had something clutched in its hand; but the hollow look of the sunken eyes froze my very heart’s blood, as they glared back at the lamp, from behind the bloodless and bony cheek. I was first roused from my trance by the sound of some one coming down the companion-way, and it was not until Catherton had thrice called me, laying his hand upon my shoulder, the third time, that I started at last to my feet, when he must have noticed my looks, as I still stared past him at the cabin-door.
“ ‘It wants but a few moments of the time, Mr. Miller,’ was all he said, and if I had died for it, I could not have answered, but huddling on my clothes in silence, mechanically followed him on deck. All was there as still as death. The moon had not yet risen, and you heard the sound of the ebb plashing against the Tartar’s bows, and rippling and gurgling in the eddies astern, as it swept through the strait.
“ ‘The watch are asleep in the galley,’ the captain whispered, as I prepared to go over the side; ‘you remember the place and the signal—a plover’s whistle twice repeated?’
“Nodding my head, I descended into the canoe; he cast off the warp, and keeping in the shade of the ship, with my brain in a whirl, I paddled close to the starboard shore. I had little time to think, for the current ran strongly round the points, and I seemed blindly impelled by the hand of fate to stem its force, even while my frame still shook like a frightened child’s.
“I had hardly a thought of my purpose; nevertheless, instinctively plying my paddle, I passed through the passage, and reached the rift of sand under the castle without being challenged.
“High above me, concealed from my eyes by the rocky steep, was the stronghold where, according to report, the sultan kept both his harem and his treasures. The danger, in some measure, restored my presence of mind, and the canoe had hardly hung for a moment on the hot, glassy tide, when I heard the signal, and immediately upon my answering it, an Arab arose from the sand, and two others appeared coming hastily down a narrow gully, along which a sort of causeway ran from the stables of the sultan’s stud to the beach. Seeing more figures than I had been taught to expect, as another appeared from behind a rock, leading two saddled horses, I was about to back farther off, when the chief’s voice called out to me in a low tone to be quick, and forcing the bow of the canoe upon the sand, not another word was exchanged, until Halil had placed the slender form of the Circassian, vailed as she was from head to foot, under the awning.
“The chief then seized my hand and carried it to his head, pointing with his right in the direction of the ship.
“Wishing him ‘God speed,’ I wrung his hand; he pushed off the canoe, and I paddled round for the ship. Glancing back, I saw him spring into the saddle, with one attendant, both sitting as motionless as statues while the canoe kept them in sight.
“Heavily armed, and mounted on a splendid charger, from what I knew of his strength and spirit, it struck me forcibly that in his present enterprise he was more than a match for most men. There was little chance, however, of the conspiracy succeeding, unless the assassination of the sultan were the first overt act, as he was greatly beloved by his people. However, I had previously understood that the Oualé of Muscat, and all the principal chiefs at Moutrah—the last a considerable town in the vicinity—were implicated, which showed that the party of the old Imaum, the sultan’s deceased uncle, was much more extensive than I had ever deemed.
“It was not with thoughts like these that I approached the ship, for the recent horror oppressed me so strongly, that I hardly knew what I was doing when the captain received Zuma from my arms at the stern-post. After this I fastened the canoe in its place, and looking, as it were by the mere force of habit, into the binnacle, found that I had been absent but twelve minutes. I then went for’ard where the two fellows who held the anchor-watch were sleeping soundly. As I kicked them up, the old carpenter came out of the steerage, rubbing his eyes, and muttering imprecations on the rats.
“ ‘They’re a considerable spry set, Mister Miller,’ said he, as I made some remark to divert his attention, ‘and, cuss me, if I half like the ways on ’em—rattlin’ past my berth atween decks, as if every beggar on ’em had shoes on his feet, and turnin’ the’r varmentish heads to listen, with more life in the slack of their tails than there is wit in the for’ard part of the ship. They comed aboard, sir, in my opinion, at an island where the ship touched on the Japan coast, and jist tuk full command of the ship at once, trampoosin’ her from the ground-tier to the tops, and crawlin’ out of the bunts of the old courses, when sail was made at daylight, or jumpin’ from the boats, when a rush was made to lower away. Hows’iver,’ he added, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, without which he was never seen on deck in these latitudes, ‘I hope, sir, they’ll stick to the ship, if it’s only for luck’s sake.’ As he said this he gave me an oblique glance of his cold, fishy eye, and then looked earnestly at the bowl of his pipe, fussing with a paper of cut tobacco.
“In the humor which I was in at the time, the most trifling incident that occurred in the ship seemed to leave an impression upon my mind never to be forgotten; however, I was not to be sounded by old Charley Toppin, cunning as he thought himself; so I answered him at random: ‘I hope not, carpenter; and as for luck—why—’
“ ‘Hist! sir,’ interrupted he, in a startled voice, pointing aft—‘what tale does that tell?’
“Turning quickly round, I saw them dropping from the poop by the dozens—one steady plump! plump! plump! till the deck was black with them, creeping in a living mass on the forecastle, down the cable, as it seemed, into the water, where we could see them swimming for the island across a broad patch of starlight, until the last of them disappeared. Captain Catherton was standing aft, looking at the frigate through his night-glass. He never stirred, and, as I thought, did not notice them. The sight seemed to shake old Kennebunk wonderfully.
“ ‘Mister Miller,’ said he fearfully, ‘this be a doomed craft.’
“ ‘You’re wrong,’ said I, ‘they’re swimming off to the shore to fill their stomachs with something green, if they can find it. They’ll be back presently, and then, if you cover the hatchways, you can call all hands to a rat-hunt.’
“The carpenter looked at me, and then at the poop, significantly enough; a look of intelligence suddenly crossed his blank, weather-beaten face, as he moved close to my side, with his hand to his mouth and his eye still fixed aft: ‘Do you know, sir,’ he whispered, bending his brows and looking me hard in the face, ‘do you know who are your shipmates in this here craft?’
“At that moment the captain called out in his deep, calm voice, and I went up on the poop, where, pointing to the frigate, which lay now within half a pistol shot of us, outside of the passage, he put the glass in my hands, without saying a word. The first look I took through the instrument explained his meaning. The frigate’s starboard broadside was sprung to bear on us, and the long tiers of guns frowning full upon the ship. They were even lighting their battle-lanterns, and groups of turbans and pointed caps were visible in every part of the upper deck.
“I dropped the glass from my eye and looked at my companion.
“ ‘I understand it,’ said he composedly, in reply to my look—‘wait a couple of hours longer, and the scene will change. In the meantime come below, and let us have a glass of grog.’
“He swept the harbor carefully with his glass, dwelling some time on the landing-place, which is at the mouth of a drain, or sort of canal; the town itself being hidden from our sight by the lofty castle-crowned crags to the north and east. The Soliman Shah, after changing her old berth, had anchored off Fisher’s rock, a small islet lying off the north point of Muscat Island.
While Catherton was thus engaged, the thought of what Halil and the rest of the conspirators could be doing at that moment, together with my adventures that night, whirled a confused crowd of images before my mind, in the midst of which black Hadji’s face was preëminent. The stories which I had heard of his craft and cruelty occurred to me so strongly that it was a relief when the captain closed his glass with a snap, and led the way to the cabin.
“ ‘Steward,’ said he to the mulatto, who seemed to make it a rule never to be caught in his hammock when his master was up, ‘set out the liquor-case, and a bottle of that old Bourbon whisky we got out of the Frenchman—and then be off to your roost.’
The fellow obeyed in his usual deferential way, and placing a lighted joshstick and a bundle of sheroots on the table withdrew.
“ ‘To-morrow,’ said Catherton, ‘we’ll tow out into the bight of the current, go how things may; and here,’ he added, pouring out a tumbler of grog, and pushing me the bottle, ‘here’s good-bye, forever and a day, to the key of the Persian Gulf.’
“I pledged him accordingly, and he went on in a very frank, easy way, I thought, considering the case in which we stood.
“ ‘A troublesome coast this to clear, Mr. Miller; the currents hereabouts are as treacherous as the heart of woman. Why,’ said he, seeming a good deal at his ease, as he poured out another glass, though I was in the other case, my eye stealing to the cabin doors in spite of me, ‘I’ve been drifted in this old ship forty miles in-shore, in a thick fog and a calm, between sunset and dawn, and no signs of a set on the surface any more than there is on this deck.’
“ ‘Yes, sir,’ said I, compelling my attention to answer him, ‘in clear weather they keep you continually taking observations—and in a fog, as you say, why—’
“ ‘Try that case-bottle of Bourbon whisky,’ interrupted he, ‘you don’t seem to relish the brandy. Here’s to the sultan! And may he wake up to-night in Paradise.’
“Here he went on in a discursive way to talk of the cholera, saying that he had had a touch of it himself on the Malabar coast.
“ ‘However,’ said he, filling up his glass a third time, ‘hang care—here’s luck!’
“ ‘The fact is, Mr. Miller,’ he continued, setting down his glass, ‘I’ve taken a great fancy to you, during the little time we’ve been together. If it lasts out to the end, depend upon me, I’ll put something handsome in your way.’
“I bowed over my glass without speaking, and he kept on in the same confidential manner, as if he made up his mind to see how we stood at once.
“ ‘I’ve made one prime voyage for my present owners in these seas, and this one—mark you—I intend for myself. Now I want a friend whom I can trust, body and soul, and, if I am not far out of my reckoning, you are the very man.’
“I met his sharp, scrutinizing glance as he said this, and remembering the carpenter’s words in the galley, I now felt sure that the captain had some scheme of villainy in his head in which he wished me to become a partner. There was the more reason to be careful of the grog, since I could not mistake his manner, and the sharp, sinister look full as deep as the occasion called for, whatever that might be. However, I thought it best to affect to do so, and answered accordingly, that I had no fears of further trouble with the crew when we were once clear of the coast.
“His fierce eyes watched mine as a tiger might a stag’s, and with a dark smile which seemed to say, ‘You’re a deep one, I see.’ He nodded his head and touched his glass again. Still he seemed to hesitate, and to be fast losing his self-possession, as if either the liquor he had drank, or something in the way I received his first hint, had flustered him. I did not think at the time that he doubted me, either; so I sat still, smoking my sheroot, and watching the traces of irresolution gleaming across his sun-seared face, until, making a strong effort to control himself, he suddenly asked if I was a married man. On my replying in the negative, he tacked ship again, asking me if I ever read poetry, alluding particularly to Moore’s Lallah Rookh.
“ ‘I don’t care a rope’s end for the Veiled Prophet or Nourmahal,’ he said, while I wondered again what he was driving at, ‘but I always admired certain descriptive parts of the Fire-Worshipers, which I always thought Byron must have touched up for Moore—for instance