THE MASQUE

Dawn.The woods are silent, save for bird pipings.In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine.Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark.On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole.In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath.Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head ofQuercus,a faun.Stealing forth,Quercusapproaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant.Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings.QUERCUSVeery, veery!—vireo!Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!Ori-ori-oriole!Seek our sanctuary!Robin rath,Little tail-twitcher,Drink from my pitcher,Dip in my bath!Dew’s in my bath,Rain’s in my pitcher,Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:Hither, highhole!Redpoll!Oriole!Vireo!—veery![From his pitcher plantQuercuspoursinto the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls:]Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?A VOICE[Outside.]A friend.QUERCUSA friend to what?THE VOICETo Song, and Song’s melodious silences.QUERCUSStill enter not.The race of wings reigns in this solitude.No foot may here intrudeWithout fair passport. Tell me first your nameAnd cause of coming here.

Dawn.

The woods are silent, save for bird pipings.

In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine.

Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark.

On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole.

In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath.

Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head ofQuercus,a faun.

Stealing forth,Quercusapproaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant.

Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings.

QUERCUS

Veery, veery!—vireo!Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!Ori-ori-oriole!Seek our sanctuary!Robin rath,Little tail-twitcher,Drink from my pitcher,Dip in my bath!Dew’s in my bath,Rain’s in my pitcher,Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:Hither, highhole!Redpoll!Oriole!Vireo!—veery!

Veery, veery!—vireo!

Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!

Ori-ori-oriole!

Seek our sanctuary!

Robin rath,

Little tail-twitcher,

Drink from my pitcher,

Dip in my bath!

Dew’s in my bath,

Rain’s in my pitcher,

Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:

Hither, highhole!

Redpoll!

Oriole!

Vireo!—veery!

[From his pitcher plantQuercuspoursinto the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls:]

Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?

A VOICE

[Outside.]

A friend.

QUERCUS

A friend to what?

THE VOICE

To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.

QUERCUS

Still enter not.The race of wings reigns in this solitude.No foot may here intrudeWithout fair passport. Tell me first your nameAnd cause of coming here.

Still enter not.

The race of wings reigns in this solitude.

No foot may here intrude

Without fair passport. Tell me first your name

And cause of coming here.

Quercus. Alwyn.[A Young Manenters, pausing in the path.]

Quercus. Alwyn.

[A Young Manenters, pausing in the path.]

THE MANFFrom hence even now a piping filled mine earWith quaintish memory: familiar,Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the sameLulling to paleness the white morning starAmong Sicilian oaks. So here I cameTo spy upon the piper. Now, methinks,I know him, by those horns and merry winks.—Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!QUERCUSNow, by Lord Pan!The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!You!—Can it really be?ALWYNIt can,Andis—by Pan, our ancient pastor!But you, slant shanks, what makeyouhere at dawn?QUERCUSNewfangleness! The classic goutStill crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,But now they run new errands.[Flourishing his staff.]Lo, the signOf my new office!ALWYNNew! What may that be?QUERCUSWood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary:Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See,My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius!Old mythologic nature-faker,He’s out of date with his caduceus.Behold in meA modern science-tutored fairyAnd practical care-taker—Grand marshal of the martin-house!ALWYN[Pointing atQuercus’staff.]Of that?QUERCUSNay, this, my bard, is but the breviatAnd little pattern.[Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole.]Yonder, you beholdThe real palace. Through those portalsWe lure the feathered broods to foldTheir wings above the world of thievish mortals.ALWYNWe—say you? Who arewe?QUERCUSMyself and my lord master.ALWYNAnd what’s he?QUERCUSNay, if I knew, I should be wiser.He is the fellow of all friendless things,Wild nature’s human sympathizer:In form a man, yet footed so with silenceThe deer mistake him for their brother; soSwift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings;An eye, that glows and twinksThrough noon like twilight’s vesper star; an earThat harks a mile henceThe purring of a lynx!I love him, follow, obey him, yet I knowNaught of him—but his love.ALWYNNot even his name?QUERCUSYea, what men call him by;And he is like the same.Men call him Master Shy.ALWYNAh, Shy, the naturalist.Why, he is my good crony. If he wistTo rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.How do you serve him?QUERCUSI’m crew to his Jason!I multiply myself for rare adventures,And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter,Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason,Seed-storer, water-carrier,Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher,Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.ALWYNNay, do you please in all?QUERCUSI carry to his call,And never yet have earned his censuresFor botch or shirk.ALWYNI prithee show me of your handiwork.What’s here—this little boxWith paddle wings?QUERCUSOne of our weather-cocks.Look you, it swings:So when, in winter, the white tempest blows,Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows,With porch turned ever to the cosy side.In that cold time, my master ShyBrings more devices to provideBird-comfort: Food-bells full of milletWe place in covert nooks, and tieOur knitted suet bags on many a boughOf pine and larch. And I must ploughThrough many a drift, to crack the frozen rilletFor little beaks to drink.ALWYNBy Phœbus, nowIs this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,That wont of yore to dallyOn violet-scented lawnWith lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!What modern change is here? What magic—QUERCUSHush![With lowered voice, he looks around warily.]I am not always quite so modern!At times—at times—as when just nowYou heard me pipe below this bough—I slip my master’s traces,And slink by paths untroddenTo lovelorn, lushArcadian places,Where Philomel still lingers,Plaining her ancient pity,And there I fetch forth thisWith idling fingers,And, pouting on its lip my kiss,I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.[Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly.]Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.

THE MAN

FFrom hence even now a piping filled mine earWith quaintish memory: familiar,Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the sameLulling to paleness the white morning starAmong Sicilian oaks. So here I cameTo spy upon the piper. Now, methinks,I know him, by those horns and merry winks.—Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!

FFrom hence even now a piping filled mine ear

With quaintish memory: familiar,

Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same

Lulling to paleness the white morning star

Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came

To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks,

I know him, by those horns and merry winks.

—Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!

QUERCUS

Now, by Lord Pan!The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!You!—Can it really be?

Now, by Lord Pan!

The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—

Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!

You!—Can it really be?

ALWYN

It can,Andis—by Pan, our ancient pastor!But you, slant shanks, what makeyouhere at dawn?

It can,

Andis—by Pan, our ancient pastor!

But you, slant shanks, what makeyouhere at dawn?

QUERCUS

Newfangleness! The classic goutStill crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,But now they run new errands.

Newfangleness! The classic gout

Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,

But now they run new errands.

[Flourishing his staff.]

Lo, the signOf my new office!

Lo, the sign

Of my new office!

ALWYN

New! What may that be?

QUERCUS

Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary:Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See,My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius!Old mythologic nature-faker,He’s out of date with his caduceus.Behold in meA modern science-tutored fairyAnd practical care-taker—Grand marshal of the martin-house!

Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary:

Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See,

My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius!

Old mythologic nature-faker,

He’s out of date with his caduceus.

Behold in me

A modern science-tutored fairy

And practical care-taker—

Grand marshal of the martin-house!

ALWYN

[Pointing atQuercus’staff.]

Of that?

QUERCUS

Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviatAnd little pattern.

Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat

And little pattern.

[Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole.]

Yonder, you beholdThe real palace. Through those portalsWe lure the feathered broods to foldTheir wings above the world of thievish mortals.

Yonder, you behold

The real palace. Through those portals

We lure the feathered broods to fold

Their wings above the world of thievish mortals.

ALWYN

We—say you? Who arewe?

QUERCUS

Myself and my lord master.

ALWYN

And what’s he?

QUERCUS

Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser.He is the fellow of all friendless things,Wild nature’s human sympathizer:In form a man, yet footed so with silenceThe deer mistake him for their brother; soSwift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings;An eye, that glows and twinksThrough noon like twilight’s vesper star; an earThat harks a mile henceThe purring of a lynx!I love him, follow, obey him, yet I knowNaught of him—but his love.

Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser.

He is the fellow of all friendless things,

Wild nature’s human sympathizer:

In form a man, yet footed so with silence

The deer mistake him for their brother; so

Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings;

An eye, that glows and twinks

Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear

That harks a mile hence

The purring of a lynx!

I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know

Naught of him—but his love.

ALWYN

Not even his name?

QUERCUS

Yea, what men call him by;And he is like the same.Men call him Master Shy.

Yea, what men call him by;

And he is like the same.

Men call him Master Shy.

ALWYN

Ah, Shy, the naturalist.Why, he is my good crony. If he wistTo rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.How do you serve him?

Ah, Shy, the naturalist.

Why, he is my good crony. If he wist

To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.

How do you serve him?

QUERCUS

I’m crew to his Jason!I multiply myself for rare adventures,And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter,Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason,Seed-storer, water-carrier,Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher,Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.

I’m crew to his Jason!

I multiply myself for rare adventures,

And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter,

Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason,

Seed-storer, water-carrier,

Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher,

Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.

ALWYN

Nay, do you please in all?

QUERCUS

I carry to his call,And never yet have earned his censuresFor botch or shirk.

I carry to his call,

And never yet have earned his censures

For botch or shirk.

ALWYN

I prithee show me of your handiwork.What’s here—this little boxWith paddle wings?

I prithee show me of your handiwork.

What’s here—this little box

With paddle wings?

QUERCUS

One of our weather-cocks.Look you, it swings:So when, in winter, the white tempest blows,Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows,With porch turned ever to the cosy side.In that cold time, my master ShyBrings more devices to provideBird-comfort: Food-bells full of milletWe place in covert nooks, and tieOur knitted suet bags on many a boughOf pine and larch. And I must ploughThrough many a drift, to crack the frozen rilletFor little beaks to drink.

One of our weather-cocks.

Look you, it swings:

So when, in winter, the white tempest blows,

Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows,

With porch turned ever to the cosy side.

In that cold time, my master Shy

Brings more devices to provide

Bird-comfort: Food-bells full of millet

We place in covert nooks, and tie

Our knitted suet bags on many a bough

Of pine and larch. And I must plough

Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet

For little beaks to drink.

ALWYN

By Phœbus, nowIs this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,That wont of yore to dallyOn violet-scented lawnWith lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!What modern change is here? What magic—

By Phœbus, now

Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,

That wont of yore to dally

On violet-scented lawn

With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!

What modern change is here? What magic—

QUERCUS

Hush!

[With lowered voice, he looks around warily.]

I am not always quite so modern!At times—at times—as when just nowYou heard me pipe below this bough—I slip my master’s traces,And slink by paths untroddenTo lovelorn, lushArcadian places,Where Philomel still lingers,Plaining her ancient pity,And there I fetch forth thisWith idling fingers,And, pouting on its lip my kiss,I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.

I am not always quite so modern!

At times—at times—as when just now

You heard me pipe below this bough—

I slip my master’s traces,

And slink by paths untrodden

To lovelorn, lush

Arcadian places,

Where Philomel still lingers,

Plaining her ancient pity,

And there I fetch forth this

With idling fingers,

And, pouting on its lip my kiss,

I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.

[Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly.]

Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.

“IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?”

III

Shy.Quercus.Alwyn.

SHY[Enters, carrying a nest-box.]AAhermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.[He greetsAlwyn.]Good morning, friend! How comes ityouare caughtWalking so early? Poets, I had thought,Salute the sunrise only in their song.ALWYN[Smiling.]Fie, then! You do us wrong:We rhyming slugabedsWalk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.Poets are owls that elegize the lark.SHYAnd now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,And teach him craftilyTo build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.ALWYN[PattingQuercus’shoulder.]Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieveMy modern apprehensions: Tutor him,Hoof, head and limb,And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,God shall provide the dawn,And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.QUERCUSWaiting, my masters!ALWYNGive your pipe to me!QUERCUS[Holding it behind him.]Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.ALWYNTruth is more sweet than melody,And wisdom than melodious words.When you have learned to greetWith their own mystic speech all living birdsAnd minister to their necessity,This pipe shall be restored, and we will makeTogether a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.[In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe fromQuercus.Shythen addressesQuercus.]SHYThis nest-box: Nail it on the barest boughOf that tall maple. Place it well,Like yonder one.QUERCUSRight, master. Now!SHYSoft, soft! Not so pell-mell!You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.First tell me of your other questing—Those errands which I sent you yesterday.QUERCUSThat cowbird, master,—SHYDid she layHer egg?QUERCUSIndeed she did, the pest!She laid it in a redstart’s nest;But up I poked my nose in, nabbed itAnd cracked it cursory:Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nurseryWithout a big stepchild to smother her chicks.SHYOld Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?QUERCUSWhat, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?[He nods shrewdly.]Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!That almost gotyouin the fix:Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.[Grinning.]Eh, master, it’syourshoe that pinches!SHYWhen cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feelsGood to be wicked.But tell me of our forest planting ground:What shrubs and creepers have you foundAnd marked, to make our shelter thicket?QUERCUSWhy, sir, to give itBirdblithesomeness, I’ve choseShad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,Black haw, and dangleberry.SHYA proper list!What trees—deciduous?QUERCUSBox-elder and bird cherry,White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.ALWYNWhat make you thus?Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?SHYGood poet, whist!No more mythology.Your faun is learning better. Truce!ALWYNMost humbly, my apology!SHYSo, Quercus: and what evergreens?QUERCUSWhite spruce,Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.SHYGood, fellow! Fine!In such a shelter-tangle we can hatchTen thousand nestlings. Run, now! CatchThat squirrel there, beforeHe makes his call at your new nest-box door.QUERCUS[Skipping to the maple tree.]Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll goAnd rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses![Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]

SHY

[Enters, carrying a nest-box.]

AAhermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.

[He greetsAlwyn.]

Good morning, friend! How comes ityouare caughtWalking so early? Poets, I had thought,Salute the sunrise only in their song.

Good morning, friend! How comes ityouare caught

Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,

Salute the sunrise only in their song.

ALWYN

[Smiling.]

Fie, then! You do us wrong:We rhyming slugabedsWalk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.Poets are owls that elegize the lark.

Fie, then! You do us wrong:

We rhyming slugabeds

Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,

For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.

Poets are owls that elegize the lark.

SHY

And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,And teach him craftilyTo build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.

And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!

Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:

Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,

To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,

And teach him craftily

To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.

ALWYN

[PattingQuercus’shoulder.]

Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieveMy modern apprehensions: Tutor him,Hoof, head and limb,And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,God shall provide the dawn,And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.

Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve

My modern apprehensions: Tutor him,

Hoof, head and limb,

And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,

God shall provide the dawn,

And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.

QUERCUS

Waiting, my masters!

ALWYN

Give your pipe to me!

QUERCUS

[Holding it behind him.]

Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.

ALWYN

Truth is more sweet than melody,And wisdom than melodious words.When you have learned to greetWith their own mystic speech all living birdsAnd minister to their necessity,This pipe shall be restored, and we will makeTogether a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.

Truth is more sweet than melody,

And wisdom than melodious words.

When you have learned to greet

With their own mystic speech all living birds

And minister to their necessity,

This pipe shall be restored, and we will make

Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.

[In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe fromQuercus.Shythen addressesQuercus.]

SHY

This nest-box: Nail it on the barest boughOf that tall maple. Place it well,Like yonder one.

This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough

Of that tall maple. Place it well,

Like yonder one.

QUERCUS

Right, master. Now!

SHY

Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.First tell me of your other questing—Those errands which I sent you yesterday.

Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!

You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.

First tell me of your other questing—

Those errands which I sent you yesterday.

QUERCUS

That cowbird, master,—

SHY

Did she layHer egg?

Did she lay

Her egg?

QUERCUS

Indeed she did, the pest!She laid it in a redstart’s nest;But up I poked my nose in, nabbed itAnd cracked it cursory:Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nurseryWithout a big stepchild to smother her chicks.

Indeed she did, the pest!

She laid it in a redstart’s nest;

But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it

And cracked it cursory:

Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery

Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.

SHY

Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?

QUERCUS

What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?

[He nods shrewdly.]

Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!That almost gotyouin the fix:Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.

Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!

That almost gotyouin the fix:

Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,

And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.

[Grinning.]

Eh, master, it’syourshoe that pinches!

SHY

When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feelsGood to be wicked.But tell me of our forest planting ground:What shrubs and creepers have you foundAnd marked, to make our shelter thicket?

When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels

Good to be wicked.

But tell me of our forest planting ground:

What shrubs and creepers have you found

And marked, to make our shelter thicket?

QUERCUS

Why, sir, to give itBirdblithesomeness, I’ve choseShad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,Black haw, and dangleberry.

Why, sir, to give it

Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose

Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,

Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,

Black haw, and dangleberry.

SHY

A proper list!What trees—deciduous?

A proper list!

What trees—deciduous?

QUERCUS

Box-elder and bird cherry,White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.

Box-elder and bird cherry,

White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.

ALWYN

What make you thus?Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?

What make you thus?

Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?

SHY

Good poet, whist!No more mythology.Your faun is learning better. Truce!

Good poet, whist!

No more mythology.

Your faun is learning better. Truce!

ALWYN

Most humbly, my apology!

SHY

So, Quercus: and what evergreens?

QUERCUS

White spruce,Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.

White spruce,

Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.

SHY

Good, fellow! Fine!In such a shelter-tangle we can hatchTen thousand nestlings. Run, now! CatchThat squirrel there, beforeHe makes his call at your new nest-box door.

Good, fellow! Fine!

In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch

Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch

That squirrel there, before

He makes his call at your new nest-box door.

QUERCUS

[Skipping to the maple tree.]

Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll goAnd rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!

Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!

Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!

When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go

And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!

[Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]

ALWYN

Alwyn.Shy.

ALWYNSShy—honest friend, your hand once more!SHYHeartily! Welcome to this wood.ALWYNDo you recall how once we stoodHere, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—Dryads and poet’s dreams?SHYYes, I recallI wondered at them all.ALWYNFirst—as to-day—you smiledYour incredulity of my quaint creed,Till soon, in further converse, we agreedIn nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled.For both of us seek nature’s fellowship,The common language of all living things:I—more in music of the human lip,You—in the whirr of beaks and wings.So both—craving the beautiful—Still worship the same shrine and oracle:This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.SHYI will confessOf all the nymphs in your ArcadiaI worship herAlone.ALWYNBecause her moods are numberlessI do the same. Between the heart of ManAnd Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan,She stands and moves—divine interpreter,Translating with her shy and pagan dancesOur world life and its trances.SHYShe is, in truth,The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.ALWYN[Eagerly.]What if, through her as intermediary,And after thousand ages of uncouthEstrangement,—what, I say, if weMight find through her the keyTo comprehend the native speech of birds,And hold communion with them in our human words!Would not that be a modern consummationNobler than fable?SHYAlmost, I would have said, we might be able,If it were not for one who scorns this shrineAnd violates the beauty of creation,Marring all contemplative quietude.ALWYNWhom do you speak of?SHYOne whom the red wineOf slaughter has made drunk, and the false glisterOf dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.Close by this woodHe plies a bold, sinisterTraffic in wings and plumage. Not by chanceBut calculated orgies, he commitsHis venal murders, slitsThe bridal plumes from backs of mating birds,And leaves the nested broodsUnhatched or starveling. So he girdsHis loins, and like the PatagonianDisplays his feathered trophies: not a manSwayed by ecstatic moods,Nor even to equipA hardy sportsmanship;Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds,And when we challenge, smiling he responds:“Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies payFor plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”ALWYNWhat is this desecrator’s name?SHYStark, the plume-hunter.ALWYNSurely he dares notTrack his defenseless gameHere to this hallowed spot!SHYNo place is holy to unhallowed minds:He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.ALWYNStill I have faithThat Tacita, in her serenity,Is mightier than he.SHYAh, nature’s quiet mood is delicateAnd crushes like a flower.ALWYNFaith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.So now, while nature muses in the thrush,Here let us sit this hour,And meditateOn Tacita, till meditation shall createIts own shy image.—Hush![They sit upon a log and listen.]

ALWYN

SShy—honest friend, your hand once more!

SHY

Heartily! Welcome to this wood.

ALWYN

Do you recall how once we stoodHere, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—Dryads and poet’s dreams?

Do you recall how once we stood

Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—

Dryads and poet’s dreams?

SHY

Yes, I recallI wondered at them all.

Yes, I recall

I wondered at them all.

ALWYN

First—as to-day—you smiledYour incredulity of my quaint creed,Till soon, in further converse, we agreedIn nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled.For both of us seek nature’s fellowship,The common language of all living things:I—more in music of the human lip,You—in the whirr of beaks and wings.So both—craving the beautiful—Still worship the same shrine and oracle:This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.

First—as to-day—you smiled

Your incredulity of my quaint creed,

Till soon, in further converse, we agreed

In nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled.

For both of us seek nature’s fellowship,

The common language of all living things:

I—more in music of the human lip,

You—in the whirr of beaks and wings.

So both—craving the beautiful—

Still worship the same shrine and oracle:

This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.

SHY

I will confessOf all the nymphs in your ArcadiaI worship herAlone.

I will confess

Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia

I worship her

Alone.

ALWYN

Because her moods are numberlessI do the same. Between the heart of ManAnd Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan,She stands and moves—divine interpreter,Translating with her shy and pagan dancesOur world life and its trances.

Because her moods are numberless

I do the same. Between the heart of Man

And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan,

She stands and moves—divine interpreter,

Translating with her shy and pagan dances

Our world life and its trances.

SHY

She is, in truth,The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.

She is, in truth,

The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.

ALWYN

[Eagerly.]

What if, through her as intermediary,And after thousand ages of uncouthEstrangement,—what, I say, if weMight find through her the keyTo comprehend the native speech of birds,And hold communion with them in our human words!Would not that be a modern consummationNobler than fable?

What if, through her as intermediary,

And after thousand ages of uncouth

Estrangement,—what, I say, if we

Might find through her the key

To comprehend the native speech of birds,

And hold communion with them in our human words!

Would not that be a modern consummation

Nobler than fable?

SHY

Almost, I would have said, we might be able,If it were not for one who scorns this shrineAnd violates the beauty of creation,Marring all contemplative quietude.

Almost, I would have said, we might be able,

If it were not for one who scorns this shrine

And violates the beauty of creation,

Marring all contemplative quietude.

ALWYN

Whom do you speak of?

SHY

One whom the red wineOf slaughter has made drunk, and the false glisterOf dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.Close by this woodHe plies a bold, sinisterTraffic in wings and plumage. Not by chanceBut calculated orgies, he commitsHis venal murders, slitsThe bridal plumes from backs of mating birds,And leaves the nested broodsUnhatched or starveling. So he girdsHis loins, and like the PatagonianDisplays his feathered trophies: not a manSwayed by ecstatic moods,Nor even to equipA hardy sportsmanship;Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds,And when we challenge, smiling he responds:“Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies payFor plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”

One whom the red wine

Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister

Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.

Close by this wood

He plies a bold, sinister

Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance

But calculated orgies, he commits

His venal murders, slits

The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds,

And leaves the nested broods

Unhatched or starveling. So he girds

His loins, and like the Patagonian

Displays his feathered trophies: not a man

Swayed by ecstatic moods,

Nor even to equip

A hardy sportsmanship;

Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds,

And when we challenge, smiling he responds:

“Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay

For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”

ALWYN

What is this desecrator’s name?

SHY

Stark, the plume-hunter.

ALWYN

Surely he dares notTrack his defenseless gameHere to this hallowed spot!

Surely he dares not

Track his defenseless game

Here to this hallowed spot!

SHY

No place is holy to unhallowed minds:He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.

No place is holy to unhallowed minds:

He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.

ALWYN

Still I have faithThat Tacita, in her serenity,Is mightier than he.

Still I have faith

That Tacita, in her serenity,

Is mightier than he.

SHY

Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicateAnd crushes like a flower.

Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate

And crushes like a flower.

ALWYN

Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.So now, while nature muses in the thrush,Here let us sit this hour,And meditateOn Tacita, till meditation shall createIts own shy image.—Hush!

Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.

So now, while nature muses in the thrush,

Here let us sit this hour,

And meditate

On Tacita, till meditation shall create

Its own shy image.—Hush!

[They sit upon a log and listen.]

Tacita.Alwyn.Shy.

[Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds inthe forest. Dimly from the backgroundTacitaappears. With steps of reverie,she approaches, and pauses beforethem.Alwynlooks up and, touchingShy’sarm, speaks low.]TTacita! It is she!SHYSpeak to her—you.AlwynDryad, and spirit of serenity,Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dewUpon our pathway, interveneFor us with that still-undiscovered queen—Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughsSpirit of birds and sister of our race,Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet,And by their moods arouseHer hidden graceTo heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.[To mysterious music,Tacitatreads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her.AlwynandShywatch her, rapt and expectant.Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth.]

[Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in

the forest. Dimly from the background

Tacitaappears. With steps of reverie,

she approaches, and pauses before

them.Alwynlooks up and, touching

Shy’sarm, speaks low.]

TTacita! It is she!

SHY

Speak to her—you.

Alwyn

Dryad, and spirit of serenity,Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dewUpon our pathway, interveneFor us with that still-undiscovered queen—Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughsSpirit of birds and sister of our race,Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet,And by their moods arouseHer hidden graceTo heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.

Dryad, and spirit of serenity,

Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew

Upon our pathway, intervene

For us with that still-undiscovered queen—

Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs

Spirit of birds and sister of our race,

Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet,

And by their moods arouse

Her hidden grace

To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.

[To mysterious music,Tacitatreads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her.AlwynandShywatch her, rapt and expectant.

Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth.]

Ornis.Alwyn.Shy.

[With a gesture of startled wildness,Tacitabreaks abruptly from her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously from the other side there enters, swift but staggering,Ornis—a maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters forward.]ORNISEEe-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary![Swaying, she falls to the ground.AlwynandShyspring toward her.]ALWYNHelp, Shy! She falls!SHY[AtOrnis’side.]Wing-struck! Here’s blood.ALWYNThat shot?SHYThe gun of Stark.[Seeking to lift her.]Up, birdling! Here is Shy.ORNIS[Droops, moaning.]O-rée-o!SHYQuick! Bring Quercus.ALWYN[Hastening off.]In a jot.SHY[Soothingly strokesOrnis’arm and shoulder.]So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!ORNIS[Moans dazedly.]Ir-re-o! P’tee!QUERCUS[Reëntering withAlwyn.]Here, master!SHY[Pointing.]Water!—There!ALWYNThe bird bath!QUERCUS[Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it toShy.]Coming!SHYSprinkle.QUERCUS[Sprinkling water uponOrnis,sings gaily.]Ó-ree-o!When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair,And leaves both large and long,’Tis merry walking in the fair foréstTo hear the small birds’ song![Ornisrevives.]SHY[Assisting her.]Now, gently!ALWYN[Bending over her, calls low.]Ornis!—Sister!ORNISWhocalls? WhereAm I?ALWYNIn sanctuary. Have no fear.ORNIS[Looking from one to the other.]Ah, me! But what are these?SHYYour brothers, dear.ORNISMy brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.ALWYNThrough Tacita you know us now; we canSpeak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.ORNIS[Rising in glad wonder.]At last!—At last!ALWYNA thousand ages—they are past,And dumbness, like a dream,Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake,And each to eachCan bid good-morning in our common speech.ORNISHow sweet and strange! Are we indeed awakingFrom callous slumber and old wrong?So sorrowfully longThe hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!—Was it a savage dream?Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beamAnd sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higherI showered His temple woods with ecstasy;When suddenlyThe earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fireShattered my wing. I fell.—Groping in flight, my feet stuck fastIn smear of lime; swift from belowA tangling net was castWhere, panting upward, a black hellOf bloody mouths barked under me;And there beside them—oh,There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty,A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumesOf my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,”I cried, “O Sanctuary!”ALWYNAnd you wokeWith us, your brothers—healed.ORNIS[With wonder.]Oh, have you heardWhat now I spoke?And can we answer truly, word for word?[Curiously.]Alwyn!ALWYNYou know my name?ORNIS[Turning eagerly from one to the other.]Shy!SHY[Smiling.]No mistake!ORNISQuercus!QUERCUS[Skipping with a bow.]Your birdship’s faun!ORNIS[Laughing joyously.]Good-morning, brothers!ALWYNWhen have you known us?ORNISMany an age and long!No syllable has bubbled in your songBut I have blown it first from yonder trees:[ToShy.]No brooding-place of yours—butIwas in the breeze;[ToQuercus.]And ever to your whistleI pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.[Tacitaappears remotely.]O beautiful my brothers!O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn,How brave it is to speak with Man and FaunAs mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.[A crashing resounds in the thicket.Tacitadisappears.]Who’s coming now?SHYStill others—our fellow man.ORNISI hear a breaking bough.ALWYNKind hearts and cruel are one clan.ORNISHark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.Come, brothers, let us look:It may be one who needs our friendliness.Come with me!ALWYN[Calling off scene.]Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.QUERCUS[With excited gestures.]Back, ho!ORNIS[Suddenly recoiling with a cry.]Ah, save me![She flies to their protection.Quercusalso scampers back fearfully, and hides.]

ORNIS

EEe-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary!

[Swaying, she falls to the ground.AlwynandShyspring toward her.]

ALWYN

Help, Shy! She falls!

SHY

[AtOrnis’side.]

Wing-struck! Here’s blood.

ALWYN

That shot?

SHY

The gun of Stark.

[Seeking to lift her.]

Up, birdling! Here is Shy.

ORNIS

[Droops, moaning.]

O-rée-o!

SHY

Quick! Bring Quercus.

ALWYN

[Hastening off.]

In a jot.

SHY

[Soothingly strokesOrnis’arm and shoulder.]

So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!

ORNIS

[Moans dazedly.]

Ir-re-o! P’tee!

QUERCUS

[Reëntering withAlwyn.]

Here, master!

SHY

[Pointing.]

Water!—There!

ALWYN

The bird bath!

QUERCUS

[Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it toShy.]

Coming!

SHY

Sprinkle.

QUERCUS

[Sprinkling water uponOrnis,sings gaily.]

Ó-ree-o!When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair,And leaves both large and long,’Tis merry walking in the fair foréstTo hear the small birds’ song!

Ó-ree-o!

When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair,

And leaves both large and long,

’Tis merry walking in the fair forést

To hear the small birds’ song!

[Ornisrevives.]

SHY

[Assisting her.]

Now, gently!

ALWYN

[Bending over her, calls low.]

Ornis!—Sister!

ORNIS

Whocalls? WhereAm I?

Whocalls? Where

Am I?

ALWYN

In sanctuary. Have no fear.

ORNIS

[Looking from one to the other.]

Ah, me! But what are these?

SHY

Your brothers, dear.

ORNIS

My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.

ALWYN

Through Tacita you know us now; we canSpeak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.

Through Tacita you know us now; we can

Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.

ORNIS

[Rising in glad wonder.]

At last!—At last!

At last!—

At last!

ALWYN

A thousand ages—they are past,And dumbness, like a dream,Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake,And each to eachCan bid good-morning in our common speech.

A thousand ages—they are past,

And dumbness, like a dream,

Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake,

And each to each

Can bid good-morning in our common speech.

ORNIS

How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awakingFrom callous slumber and old wrong?So sorrowfully longThe hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!—Was it a savage dream?Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beamAnd sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higherI showered His temple woods with ecstasy;When suddenlyThe earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fireShattered my wing. I fell.—Groping in flight, my feet stuck fastIn smear of lime; swift from belowA tangling net was castWhere, panting upward, a black hellOf bloody mouths barked under me;And there beside them—oh,There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty,A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumesOf my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,”I cried, “O Sanctuary!”

How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking

From callous slumber and old wrong?

So sorrowfully long

The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!—

Was it a savage dream?

Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam

And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher

I showered His temple woods with ecstasy;

When suddenly

The earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fire

Shattered my wing. I fell.—

Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast

In smear of lime; swift from below

A tangling net was cast

Where, panting upward, a black hell

Of bloody mouths barked under me;

And there beside them—oh,

There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty,

A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes

Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,”

I cried, “O Sanctuary!”

ALWYN

And you wokeWith us, your brothers—healed.

And you woke

With us, your brothers—healed.

ORNIS

[With wonder.]

Oh, have you heardWhat now I spoke?And can we answer truly, word for word?

Oh, have you heard

What now I spoke?

And can we answer truly, word for word?

[Curiously.]

Alwyn!

ALWYN

You know my name?

ORNIS

[Turning eagerly from one to the other.]

Shy!

SHY

[Smiling.]

No mistake!

ORNIS

Quercus!

QUERCUS

[Skipping with a bow.]

Your birdship’s faun!

ORNIS

[Laughing joyously.]

Good-morning, brothers!

ALWYN

When have you known us?

ORNIS

Many an age and long!No syllable has bubbled in your songBut I have blown it first from yonder trees:

Many an age and long!

No syllable has bubbled in your song

But I have blown it first from yonder trees:

[ToShy.]

No brooding-place of yours—butIwas in the breeze;

[ToQuercus.]

And ever to your whistleI pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.

And ever to your whistle

I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.

[Tacitaappears remotely.]

O beautiful my brothers!O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn,How brave it is to speak with Man and FaunAs mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.

O beautiful my brothers!

O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn,

How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun

As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.

[A crashing resounds in the thicket.Tacitadisappears.]

Who’s coming now?

SHY

Still others—our fellow man.

ORNIS

I hear a breaking bough.

ALWYN

Kind hearts and cruel are one clan.

ORNIS

Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.Come, brothers, let us look:It may be one who needs our friendliness.Come with me!

Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.

Come, brothers, let us look:

It may be one who needs our friendliness.

Come with me!

ALWYN

[Calling off scene.]

Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.

QUERCUS

[With excited gestures.]

Back, ho!

ORNIS

[Suddenly recoiling with a cry.]

Ah, save me!

[She flies to their protection.Quercusalso scampers back fearfully, and hides.]

VII

Stark.Ornis.Alwyn.Shy.

[EnterStark,in garb of a hunter. Hewears a tawny leopard’s skin, and hishead is gorgeously plumed. Behindhim, two panting dogs are held in leashby attendants.Starkrushes towardOrnis,passes her oblivious, and seizesup the fallen bird.]STARKBBagged!—Hold off the dogs![TheAttendantswithdraw with the hounds.]ORNIS[AsStarkgrasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain.]Ee-ó-lo!STARKA rare beauty!—Bah, one wingShot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.

[EnterStark,in garb of a hunter. He

wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his

head is gorgeously plumed. Behind

him, two panting dogs are held in leash

by attendants.Starkrushes toward

Ornis,passes her oblivious, and seizes

up the fallen bird.]

STARK

BBagged!—Hold off the dogs!

[TheAttendantswithdraw with the hounds.]

ORNIS

[AsStarkgrasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain.]

Ee-ó-lo!

STARK

A rare beauty!—Bah, one wingShot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.

A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing

Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.

“Sir—Here isNo Hunting”

Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner.[He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he seesAlwynandShy,and greets them gaily.]Halloa! Fine hunting weather!SHY[Quietly.]Sir,Here isNo Hunting.STARK[With a laugh.]Pipe that to the frogs!SHYThis ground is sanctuary.STARKAnd what’s that?SHYA place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.STARKWhy, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat.I only plume myself—to trim a hat.Besides, I shot outside your pale;And now[Touching his pouch, he winks.]the game is bagged.SHYYou bag the spangleAnd lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no placeTo preach or wrangleOur creeds. I am a student, not a teacher.So I would only learn of you: what joyUrges you to destroySo gracious, fairAnd innocent a fellow-creatureAs yonder?[He points atOrnis.]STARK[Looking.]Where?ALWYNOur sister, who stands thereAnd dumbly pleads for all her race—And ours.STARKBy Christ in Hades,My eyes see nothing but a braceOf popinjays, who pipe to me of ladiesAnd show me—no one.ALWYNLook more near.Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!ORNIS[Drawing back in dread.]O-rée-o!STARKI am listening.ALWYNDid you hearNo voice?STARKI heard a bird call from that bough.QUERCUS[Peeping towardShyfrom the bushes.]Have at him, master!SHY[ToStark.]Did you spyThat fellow’s horns there, when he drew backInto the bush?STARKI sawA stirring in that staghorn sumach,And caught a rabbit’s eye.—What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!Good day to you!ALWYNStay yet!Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands,Turning to take the gentle, outreached handsOf our shy sister: Can you seeNo timid form beside him?STARKPerfectlyMy eyes discernA man, who peers within the morning mist,And murmurs to the air,And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there.In short, I see a sentimentalist.I am not of that ilk.[Calling]—Ho, there!—Holá!Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.ALWYNStay, and learnWhat we ourselves have only learned through quietListening. So long, in rampant haste,Your dizzy soul has chasedThe spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac,That you have lost the trackOf paths serene, and pace God’s world in riotOf blinding gold. Pause, for this little space!Put off that blood-emblazed regaliaGorgeous with death,And draw with me one meditative breathHere in the temple of cool Tacita.STARK[Who has listened with half-amused curiosity.]Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?ALWYNOne lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.SHYGo, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.[Quercusgoes out.]STARKMistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?And may this wonder dawn on my horizonIf I remain?ALWYNRemain—to meditate!STARKWhy, now, you stir my fancies.In truth, ’tis early still, and little to doThis hour. Come, I will waitAnd watch with you. But mind! The nymph must beMore lovely than my eyes did ever see!ALWYNWith loveliness more deep than eyes discover.STARKSo, ’tis a bargain, then?ALWYNSit by me here;And if your musings cause no fear,You shall behold her in her secret dances.STARKBy Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her![He sits on the log besideAlwyn. Ornisstill stands apart, underShy’sprotection.Quercusenters, beckoning backward into the wood.]

Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner.

[He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he seesAlwynandShy,and greets them gaily.]

Halloa! Fine hunting weather!

SHY

[Quietly.]

Sir,Here isNo Hunting.

Sir,

Here isNo Hunting.

STARK

[With a laugh.]

Pipe that to the frogs!

SHY

This ground is sanctuary.

STARK

And what’s that?

SHY

A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.

STARK

Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat.I only plume myself—to trim a hat.Besides, I shot outside your pale;And now

Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat.

I only plume myself—to trim a hat.

Besides, I shot outside your pale;

And now

[Touching his pouch, he winks.]

the game is bagged.

SHY

You bag the spangleAnd lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no placeTo preach or wrangleOur creeds. I am a student, not a teacher.So I would only learn of you: what joyUrges you to destroySo gracious, fairAnd innocent a fellow-creatureAs yonder?

You bag the spangle

And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place

To preach or wrangle

Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher.

So I would only learn of you: what joy

Urges you to destroy

So gracious, fair

And innocent a fellow-creature

As yonder?

[He points atOrnis.]

STARK

[Looking.]

Where?

ALWYN

Our sister, who stands thereAnd dumbly pleads for all her race—And ours.

Our sister, who stands there

And dumbly pleads for all her race—

And ours.

STARK

By Christ in Hades,My eyes see nothing but a braceOf popinjays, who pipe to me of ladiesAnd show me—no one.

By Christ in Hades,

My eyes see nothing but a brace

Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies

And show me—no one.

ALWYN

Look more near.Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!

Look more near.

Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!

ORNIS

[Drawing back in dread.]

O-rée-o!

STARK

I am listening.

ALWYN

Did you hearNo voice?

Did you hear

No voice?

STARK

I heard a bird call from that bough.

QUERCUS

[Peeping towardShyfrom the bushes.]

Have at him, master!

SHY

[ToStark.]

Did you spyThat fellow’s horns there, when he drew backInto the bush?

Did you spy

That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back

Into the bush?

STARK

I sawA stirring in that staghorn sumach,And caught a rabbit’s eye.—What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!Good day to you!

I saw

A stirring in that staghorn sumach,

And caught a rabbit’s eye.—

What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!

Good day to you!

ALWYN

Stay yet!Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands,Turning to take the gentle, outreached handsOf our shy sister: Can you seeNo timid form beside him?

Stay yet!

Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands,

Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands

Of our shy sister: Can you see

No timid form beside him?

STARK

PerfectlyMy eyes discernA man, who peers within the morning mist,And murmurs to the air,And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there.In short, I see a sentimentalist.I am not of that ilk.[Calling]—Ho, there!—Holá!Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.

Perfectly

My eyes discern

A man, who peers within the morning mist,

And murmurs to the air,

And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there.

In short, I see a sentimentalist.

I am not of that ilk.

[Calling]—Ho, there!—Holá!

Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.

ALWYN

Stay, and learnWhat we ourselves have only learned through quietListening. So long, in rampant haste,Your dizzy soul has chasedThe spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac,That you have lost the trackOf paths serene, and pace God’s world in riotOf blinding gold. Pause, for this little space!Put off that blood-emblazed regaliaGorgeous with death,And draw with me one meditative breathHere in the temple of cool Tacita.

Stay, and learn

What we ourselves have only learned through quiet

Listening. So long, in rampant haste,

Your dizzy soul has chased

The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac,

That you have lost the track

Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot

Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space!

Put off that blood-emblazed regalia

Gorgeous with death,

And draw with me one meditative breath

Here in the temple of cool Tacita.

STARK

[Who has listened with half-amused curiosity.]

Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?

ALWYN

One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.

SHY

Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.

[Quercusgoes out.]

STARK

Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?And may this wonder dawn on my horizonIf I remain?

Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?

And may this wonder dawn on my horizon

If I remain?

ALWYN

Remain—to meditate!

STARK

Why, now, you stir my fancies.In truth, ’tis early still, and little to doThis hour. Come, I will waitAnd watch with you. But mind! The nymph must beMore lovely than my eyes did ever see!

Why, now, you stir my fancies.

In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do

This hour. Come, I will wait

And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be

More lovely than my eyes did ever see!

ALWYN

With loveliness more deep than eyes discover.

STARK

So, ’tis a bargain, then?

ALWYN

Sit by me here;And if your musings cause no fear,You shall behold her in her secret dances.

Sit by me here;

And if your musings cause no fear,

You shall behold her in her secret dances.

STARK

By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her!

[He sits on the log besideAlwyn. Ornisstill stands apart, underShy’sprotection.Quercusenters, beckoning backward into the wood.]

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