A MASQUE OF LOVE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES ERSKINE SCOTT WOOD 
 
 WALTER M. HILL 
 CHICAGO 
 
 1904 
 
Copyright 1904 
 ByC.E.S.Wood 
 
THE FIRST PART 
 
 OF THE 
 MASQUE OF LOVE 
 
A MASQUE OF LOVE. THE FIRST PART. 
 
 SCENE I. EVE AT THE FOREST S EDGE. 
 
 VE. This kissing air is medicined with 
 flowers and gently sweet, but soothes 
 me not. Palm and brow and twixt my 
 breasts are moist and I am heavy with 
 oppression of I know not what. Twas 
 yestereve I watched two wrens caress, and when she 
 hopped into the aged beech, he, swollen to a feather 
 ball, did mad himself with song from his sky -pointed 
 bill. And then I watched the dark-browed Night, 
 with quiet fingers, don her diadem. Mine eyes did 
 question hers, and as the hours in slow procession 
 dragged I sighed and turned and sighed again, till 
 one by one mine eyes put out the stars, my hungering 
 unanswered still. 
 SOUTH WIND. Sister! 
 EVE. Who speaks? 
 SOUTH WIND. Tis I, thy sister. 
 EVE. I see you not. 
 SOUTH WIND. I m here. 
 
 EVE. Ha! Sprang you from the solid earth or wert 
 thou coined from air? You come as comes the dew. 
 SOUTH WIND. Here, sister, feel my hand. I came 
 to heal thy ache. 
 
 EVE. How soft! You smell most sweet. 
 SOUTH WIND. I slept among the honeysuckles 
 yesternight. And thou art sick? 
 EVE. I m sad. I had a buck with little horns like 
 buds. He trotted after me on slim-propped legs, 
 his wet nose put into my hands, and answered me 
 with sad brown eyes. But now three days, there 
 
 5 
 
came from out the hazel bush a sleek young doe 
 
 that stood and looked and sniffed. She bounded off 
 
 and he did burst from me to follow her, nor came 
 
 he back. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. We ll catch a dappled fawn. 
 
 EVE. I did use at night to touch his velvet head. 
 
 I think the night breeds with the yellow swamp and 
 
 sweet fern beds, which makes the cool and moisty 
 
 air smell sweetly of the earth. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. I think so too. That is my sister s 
 
 bridal. Come! We ll get a fawn for thee. 
 
 EVE. I want it not. I think I m sick. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Aye, unto death and life. I know 
 
 a poison good for thee. Come thou with me. 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 SCENE II. A MOUNTAIN SIDE. 
 
 Enter Hubert, a black bearskin on his arm. (Sings.) 
 
 | HE Lark doth sing from top of tree, 
 
 So merrily, so merrily. 
 
 Come! Come! the sun is coming! 
 And I sing out with song and shout, 
 For woods are green and brooks are running. 
 
 The blackbird sings from slender reed, 
 
 So merrily, so merrily. 
 
 Come! Come! the sun is coming! 
 
 And so sing I unto the sky 
 
 For woods are green and brooks are running. 
 
 The speckled thrush sings in the bush, 
 So merrily, so merrily. 
 Come! Come! the sun is coming! 
 6 
 
Three eggs do rest within the nest 
 
 And woods are green and brooks are running. 
 
 Down, Dropear. Down, good Swiftfoot. Down 
 would eat me pets? Do think I sing to ye. So, so. 
 Now sing ye back, my beauties, pretties, glossy ones. 
 Down, down I say; I wonder would ye tear our 
 little doe if ye should meet her in the wild? I ll fear 
 to strike a doe again lest it be she. What whimsy 
 led her to be gone? (Sings) 
 
 Ah, the woods are green, 
 
 They re a pretty, pretty green, 
 
 But soon they shall be yellow, 
 
 Be not too late, ye little birds, which mate 
 
 But find your pretty fellow. 
 
 Your pretty, pretty, pretty mate, 
 
 Your pretty, pretty fellow. 
 
 Down, white-toothed ones. Must ye still leap upon 
 the she bear s empty hide? I like not mountain tops, 
 the air about them hath a loneliness. Good Dropear, 
 down! Twas hot blistering work above the clouds; 
 the sun untamed; the glistening, eternal snow: the 
 milky, melting streams a-snarling o er the naked 
 rocks. The eagles far below; the woods like deep 
 piled velvet spread about the mountain s loins. And 
 there, we dragged her from her den, this hairy 
 ravager of herds, and here s her hide. I like not 
 those too fearful heights above the haunts of men. 
 The forest s calm I love this great, green prayer 
 which spreads itself like upturned palms. Back! 
 Back! My Pretties. Yours is lower down to drink, 
 and give your bellies to the splashing stream. I ll 
 to the Forest s Eye. [Exit] 
 
 7 
 
SCENE III. A FLOWER SPRINKLED 
 MEADOW. 
 
 South Wind and Eve. 
 
 |OUTH WIND. Here in this gilded mead 
 
 we find thy medicine. 
 
 EVE. How shall I know? 
 SOUTH WIND. How knows the panting dog what 
 water is? And how doth know the adder-smitten 
 boar what weed to chew to cure his hurt? Surely 
 thou shalt know. Did st note that laurel catch thy 
 scarf and lay her pearly bells against thy thigh? 
 She sighed that it was whiter, bade me give you joy, 
 and asked that in your joy you do be mindful of her. 
 She was a woman once, her heart still swells with 
 nameless summer hunger like to thine. 
 EVE. Poor laurel! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. How like a mimic world this glade. 
 The monarch oaks, deep-rooted in submissive soil, 
 cast haughty shade about them, killing off whatever 
 in the circle of their empery would share their proud 
 monopoly of sun and rain ; the courtier buttercups, in 
 gilded cloaks aflaunt, just at the verge and bowing 
 in the sun and woodbine sycophantic climbing 
 to the sun upon the oaks great strength, and lichened 
 rocks which thrust their lowly snouts into this wav 
 ing pageantry of privilege as if the humblest showed 
 their teeth and said, beware Why look you so? 
 EVE. I hear the splashing of some fearsome beast. 
 SOUTH WIND. The beast most fearsome; dost 
 thou long to be devoured? 
 EVE. No! No! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. In time, in time! 
 8 
 
EVE. Oh, no! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Peep through this leafy screen and 
 
 thou shalt see a sleeping pool, upon whose lips the 
 
 vain, tall birches tiptoe stand and lean to see their 
 
 silver mail. 
 
 EVE. Ah! Ah! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Thou tremblest. What hast thou 
 
 seen? Speak! 
 
 EVE. Oh, hush! Thou wilt affright it. Tis a god at 
 
 play. A god a-splash within the pool that clings to 
 
 him. His legs like ivory columns in the pool that 
 
 dimples them. His back an ivory shield. His breast 
 
 an ivory wall. His lips, his nose, his eyes, his curled 
 
 brown hair with water drops a-glisten. All a god. I 
 
 would that I might touch him ere I die. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Thou shalt. 
 
 EVE. Nay. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Hell kiss thy feet. Come thou 
 
 with me. 
 
 EVE. Mock me not. 
 
 [Exeunt Eve and South Wind. Enter Hubert. He 
 
 spreads a bear skin on the cushioned grass and 
 
 sleeps, a hound on either side. Enter Eve and 
 
 South Wind.] 
 
 EVE. How like the purest marble shines he on that 
 
 ebon couch. He sleeps. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Come thou, we ll kneel beside him. 
 
 EVE. Beautiful! How soft, yet firm, he seems. I d 
 
 see his eyes, but fear to see the blue-veined shutters 
 
 lift. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Fear not, my spell is on them too. 
 
 EVE. He s warm. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. As warm as thou. 
 
 9 
 
EVE. Will he not wake? 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Not tho it thunder. Not tho thou 
 should st kill him. 
 EVE. O! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Fear not. 
 
 EVE. I ve touched him, felt his polished limbs, and 
 pressed my cheek upon his breast, my heaviness all 
 oozing out to him, my feet so light, I think yon pale 
 blue bed of irises would bear me up. 
 SOUTH WIND. Come, stricken one, with me. 
 EVE. If stricken, tis with joy. Hark! to the oriole! 
 Above his swinging pouch on yon great drooping 
 elm he whistles to the falling sun. Once more, once 
 more. Now come! To-night I ll be at peace. I need 
 no medicine of fern or flag or swampy root: my 
 fever s gone, there is no need. 
 SOUTH WIND. There is no further need, tis true, 
 and yet much need. [Exeunt] 
 
 HUBERT (Awaking) I ve slept a heavy sleep, as if 
 I died and visions came most fair, but dimming now 
 upon my memory. How sweet it smells of lilacs 
 and of clover-fields afar. Yet here should only be 
 the smell of moss and grass, moist earth, and summer 
 leaves. The air hath witchery. Awake! ye dull and 
 foolish sentinels! Dropear! Swiftfoot! Bad dogs. 
 Some one has passed upon the grass and left sweet 
 smell, perhaps a nymph. Tis mystery. 
 OAK HEART. Aye, mystery. 
 HUBERT. Hullo! 
 
 OAK HEART. Tis I, the friend whose arms have 
 sheltered thee since first you lay upon the earth and 
 plucked the grass, whose fruit you ve chewed, 
 whose gnarled roots have pillowed thee. 
 10 
 
HUBERT. Friend, show thyself. 
 OAK HEART. Tis well! Canst thou not see a six 
 foot oak, rough barked and grey with centuries? 
 HUBERT. Art thou the oak? 
 OAK HEART. Nine generations of thy kind have 
 crept to rest beneath my roots: my roots have lifted 
 them again to sun and sky. Both I and they are one; 
 three hundred years I ve stretched my arms unto the 
 sun and battled with the wind. In silence of the plod 
 ding nights I ve watched the cunning stars and heard 
 the thousand voices of the dark which make the hush 
 more still; deep-voiced frogs, the shrilling tree-toads 
 and cicadas, far, sad whip-poor-will and shivering 
 owl; the fox s bark and wild cat s wailing cry, the 
 cricket s and wood mouse s squeak. Through all my 
 summer leaves, the fire-flies bear their lanterns; win 
 ter strips me bare. The red hawk s nest doth fill 
 with snow, and through the cold, clear winter night 
 there s not a sound. I sleep. But in the waking sum 
 mer time I stretch my arms to canopy thy bed, and 
 at the last I take thee to my heart. For I am thine 
 and thou art mine. 
 
 HUBERT. Then tell me, Oak, was any here now 
 while I slept? 
 
 OAK HEART. The Southwind with a yearning girl. 
 HUBERT. What s that? I ve killed an every wicked 
 beast the forest holds, but never that. 
 OAK HEART. It is not use to kill them. 
 HUBERT. What is that delicate, sweet smell? 
 OAK HEART. They sleep in flowers. 
 HUBERT. How shall I see this girl? 
 OAK HEART. How comes the spring sap in my 
 veins? The satin leaves upon my twigs? Inevitable 
 
 11 
 
beyond resistance. She shall come to thee. 
 HUBERT. I thank thee firm and fixed friend. I ll 
 stir no more abroad without my spear. Methinks 
 thy leaves sound laughingly. 
 
 OAK HEART. And shall they weep when brooks 
 are chuckling and the sun vaults o er the ready 
 earth and flowers do follow, follow where he treads? 
 When swarming sparrows make the cedar trees 
 alive? But whet thy spear; it is a cunning beast. 
 HUBERT. I warrant I shall be prepared. Now 
 tremble all thy boughs with what seems laughter. 
 OAK HEART. See! between my high, wide-spread 
 ing knees this mossy couch. Was ever velvet bed so 
 soft? Tis dry and thick and I will hold thee in a 
 tender guard. 
 
 HUBERT. There opens Dropear and his mate, the 
 buck s afoot and I must call them off or they will 
 palter through the silver, summer night. (Sings) 
 
 Oh my cunning, cunning dogs, 
 
 Oh my tuneful mellow dogs. 
 
 What joy to your nose is the hot scent, Oh! 
 
 How you love the steamy trail, 
 
 And you ll follow, peak and dale, 
 
 Till the stag stands still with his heart spent, Oh! 
 
 HUBERT. Farewell Good Oak! 
 OAK HEART. Farewell But come to me with all 
 the burden of thy love in summer time, and when pale 
 winter frosts thy mane, makes dull thy taste, thine 
 eyeballs dim and chills the feeble current of thy 
 blood. Still come to me and at my root cast all thy 
 burdens off and fall upon the earth, and sleep. 
 
 12 
 
SCENE IV. A FOREST GLADE. 
 
 Enter Eve and South Wind. 
 
 VE. How still it is. The woods, the hills, the 
 
 plains, the lakes, are pensive for their burning 
 lover who s departed down the world and 
 only left a dying flush, as twere of love s remem 
 brances. There is not a sound. The ever restless birch 
 trees rest. Yon clouds are fixed against the saffron 
 sky; the world has died. And hear how far, deep 
 from the forest s heart, the hermit thrush shoots to 
 the ear his slender shaft of song. That smallest voice, 
 alone in all the bigness of this world. 
 SOUTH WIND. It more out- voices far the temple 
 bells. Such nights I love. Whole seas of clover now 
 yield up their sweets, and white-plumed locust trees, 
 which in the sun-time hum with plundering bees, now 
 breathe on cloistering night a fragrant love too 
 gentle for the bold and boisterous day. 
 EVE. Your breath smells of the wild grape blooms. 
 Come close to me. It is a holy hour. I feel a growing 
 loneliness. Come close. Put your arms about me. 
 Let me press my head against your breast. 
 SOUTH WIND. Here steals above the distant hills 
 dark velvet edge Orion s sparkling sword. Compose 
 thyself to sleep. 
 
 EVE. I cannot sleep. The fever eats me. I shall 
 watch with starving eyes, alone, alone. 
 SOUTH WIND. And thou art sick again? 
 EVE. Yea, sicker than before, and now I know my 
 hungering. It is to touch my ivory god, or just to hang 
 above him as a humming bird above the trumpet 
 flower. Or, but to hear him speak. To serve him like 
 
 13 
 
his hounds, to hide within the ferny brake and feel 
 him touch me as he passed. There is a killing aching 
 here, to which but he alone is cure. To eat him with 
 my eyes; to pluck the grass he pressed. And would 
 he hold me as that thou doest now, then every star 
 would sing a chorus to the night and I would gladly 
 close my eyes and sleep until the sun burned out. 
 Oh me! To know I breathed the air he breathes! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. (Sings.) 
 
 Poppyseed! Poppyseed! Hither, hither run, 
 
 From where the hot, hot sun 
 
 Bakes hot the earth, 
 
 And thy drooped scarlet weed, 
 
 Come, come, my Poppyseed! 
 
 My drowsy sister, come! 
 
 On gauzy beetle wing with lulling hum. 
 
 Come to the one in need, 
 
 My chosen sister, come! 
 
 EVE. The spotted night hawk whirls on noiseless 
 wing against the sky. [Enter Poppy] 
 
 SOUTH WIND. O ! Sister mine, I ll pay this grateful 
 debt some night when thou art parched. 
 POPPY. Who is in need? 
 SOUTH WIND. This one is she. 
 POPPY. (To Eve) Would st thou forget? 
 EVE. O! How cam st thou here? Who art thou? 
 Whence do st come? 
 
 SOUTH WIND. She is my sister of the night my 
 ebon-eyed. 
 
 EVE. How pale she is how beautiful. I would the 
 light were more. Your face is calm, but hath a touch 
 of sadness. Purple shadows in your hair. I d see 
 14 
 
you in the sun. 
 
 POPPY. Behold my small embroiderers, the fire-fly 
 host, which even now do fret the air with gold. 
 They ll give thee light. 
 
 EVE. O, wondrous! Beautiful! These lines of fire 
 in airy weaving on the velvet edge of night; and all 
 about thy head a golden net. How beautiful thou 
 art. How pale! How calm thy eyes. 
 POPPY. Would st thou forget? 
 EVE. Nay! Not forget. I would not yield the dear 
 and cruel pain. Long are the watches of the night 
 when I must be alone, and like a hell-wolf is the 
 hunger at my heart, and I am sick with this too biting 
 fire, yet would I not my suffering ease by sponging 
 all remembrance off. The pain he makes is dear and 
 killing grief, but better than to cease to know that 
 I have known. 
 
 POPPY. Here is a pale forget-me-not his foot has 
 bruised today. 
 
 EVE. Oh, give it me; I ll keep it warm. 
 SOUTH WIND. So rest thee here, thy head upon 
 my knee. 
 
 EVE. Thou precious flower. 
 
 POPPY. Come hither, Sleep! Thou dumb and 
 gentle visitor. Bathe in thy deep forgetful well this 
 pricking memory, and wash these fevered eyelids 
 with thy dew. 
 
 EVE. Thy fingers seem to strip all trouble from me. 
 POPPY. To eyes, to ears, to lips, come Sleep! 
 SOUTH WIND. She sleeps. 
 
 POPPY. I from my finger ends have poured the 
 charm, nor shall she wake until the burnished 
 pheasant cock croaks to the dawn and knocks the 
 
 15 
 
dew from off the thistles. Fare thee well! 
 SOUTH WIND. Farewell! I ll leave her here; I 
 must unto a lake I know, all powdered o er with 
 stars mixed with the golden lilies shut like buds; 
 where great white bowled magnolias pour the balm 
 in which I bathe. I ll there affright the prowling 
 water rat to furtive splash and ere the sleepy sparrow 
 chirps, I ll breathe on Hubert, then to her. To 
 morrow is their day. Farewell. 
 POPPY. Is she, too, victim to the great, all-binding 
 chain? The all-compelling goad? 
 SOUTH WIND. Her time has come, 
 POPPY. Farewell, may flowers be rich. 
 SOUTH WIND. Farewell, may sun be true. 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 SCENE V. A FOREST GLADE: SUNRISE. 
 Eve sleeping. 
 
 ICKORY. Wake, beautiful one! 
 
 CHESTNUT. Wake, beautiful one! 
 
 DOGWOOD. Wake, beautiful one! 
 ALL. She heeds not our sighing. 
 HICKORY. Wake, O beloved! 
 CHESTNUT. Wake, O beloved! 
 DOGWOOD. Wake, O beloved! 
 ALL. She hears not our whispering. 
 DOGWOOD. She is white like my blossom. 
 CHESTNUT. She is like my blossom, creamy and 
 soft. 
 
 HICKORY. Like my leaves, she is fragrant. 
 ALL. She is a child of the earth, very beautiful. 
 HICKORY. Her foot is pink like the morning. 
 16 
 
CHESTNUT. Her hair is like my ripened nuts seen 
 in the sunlight. 
 
 DOGWOOD. Her breasts are ivory, they are cups 
 white as my blossoms. 
 
 HICKORY. She is pink as the apple blossom. 
 CHESTNUT. Soft as the floss of the milk weed. 
 DOGWOOD. Her lips are red as my berries. 
 ALL. She is a daughter of the earth, very beautiful. 
 She hears not our sighing. Oh, we who are chained 
 to the earth, who stand fixed and lift our fingers to 
 the sky, who pray to the sun; we whose spring blood 
 mounts in our veins, who tremble and thrill when 
 our lover comes ; we who were men. Now our voices 
 wake not. In the ears of men we are dumb. We are 
 immovable, fixed; there is none who hearkens to our 
 sighing. There is none knows our whispers. There 
 is none there is none. 
 SQUIRREL. Who sleepeth here? 
 HICKORY. Imp! Imp! Come away. She s not for 
 thee. 
 
 SQUIRREL. Is she for thee, old Shellbark? 
 DOGWOOD. Imp! molest her not. 
 SQUIRREL. I have hands, though they be long and 
 be meant to dig; I have ears, though they be pointed 
 and with hairy tufts. I have feet that run, and I can 
 laugh I laugh at ye, ye prisoned ones I run. 
 CHESTNUT. Chatterer, molest her not or thou 
 shalt starve. 
 
 SQUIRREL. Who s she, this white and polished 
 worm? I think I ll bite her cheek, tis juicier than 
 a peach. 
 
 ALL. Molest her not, thou Imp. 
 SQUIRREL. Here s honey on her lips they smell 
 
 17 
 
of honey-comb I ll sip it up. 
 ALL. Beware! 
 
 SQUIRREL. See how she turns and murmurs, 
 kissing back where I did steal the sweets I d love 
 to bite. 
 
 ALL. Beware, she is the daughter of the Earth and 
 thou but forest imp. She s not for thee. 
 SQUIRREL. Nor thee, nor thee, nor thee. How 
 many times, ye rooted things, ye tell me what I know. 
 May I not peck as robins do at cherries ripe? 
 HICKORY. I ll cast a nut upon her. It is green, but 
 it will touch my love and wake her eyes. 
 SQUIRREL. O brave! See, still she sleeps and on 
 her fair white thigh a red spot from thy stroke. 
 HICKORY. Tis like a rose leaf on a bank of snow. 
 SQUIRREL. Cast thou, wise chestnut, one of thy 
 green porcupines upon her flesh. Twill please her 
 much. This is old Shellbark s way. 
 HICKORY. I d love to crack thy crown. 
 SQUIRREL. I do not pelt my love with stones. 
 Look now. I ll watch above her, swinging in thy 
 limbs. I ll touch her with my hands and rub them 
 on thy bark, so thou shalt thrill. 
 HICKORY. O, good Imp, do! 
 SQUIRREL. Tis good Imp now I ll guard her 
 jealously. Here comes young Stupid-wise. 
 OWLET. What s here, a glorious glow worm? 
 SQUIRREL. Glorious fool! 
 OWLET. I ll call them all Hoo, Hoo! 
 SQUIRREL. Here comes my cock-a-dandy in the 
 lead; my silent, modest joy. He thinks there s eating 
 here. And come the forest tenantry from hawk to 
 wren, from buck to beetle. See them gather round. 
 18 
 
[Enter Forest tenantry. They gather round about 
 Eve, bedding her in flowers. Enter South Wind] 
 SOUTH WIND. Who gave you leave to stare? 
 Away! Tis dawn Away, intrusive fools! (Kisses 
 Eve.) [Exeunt Forest tenantry] 
 
 EVE. (Waking) You have been near him? 
 SOUTH WIND. Yes. 
 
 EVE. I would that I had been near you. Who has 
 been here and left me bedded in these leaves and 
 flowers? See all the fragrant litter round. 
 SOUTH WIND. It was the forest folk. They 
 watched your sleep. 
 
 EVE. Come near, there s scent of him upon you. 
 SOUTH WIND. Take my hand and down these 
 leafy lanes, green carpeted and sunshine flecked, 
 we ll noiseless flit as shadows of a passing cloud 
 and we shall bathe where he did bathe. 
 EVE. Oh come! 
 
 SOUTH WIND. The woods are musical, and morn 
 ing s choir in jangling melody makes sweetest 
 discord. Now near, now far, and now a burst of 
 rivalry which shakes the air. There is no cease. 
 Wren, sparrow, cat-bird, cardinal and robin, lark, a 
 thousand more, each sings his way, yet all a glad, 
 sweet chorusing, and chorus-master mocker leads 
 them all. The wood s green veil is tender still and 
 pale; new in its summer birth. The slender traceries 
 of stems and limbs a lovely maze, pink starflowers, 
 delicate as breath, anemones and purple pansies 
 made a carpet rich, May apples lift umbrellas, glossy 
 green, against the morning s diamond shower. 
 EVE. There goes a forest herd. The dew still on 
 their coats: how proud and daintily they step; how 
 
 19 
 
haughty gaze; my playmate is not there. 
 SOUTH WIND. Now run with me. Thus hand in 
 hand, as light as swallows, o er this carpet pied 
 whose jewels nod, and scarcely know they have 
 been pressed. [Exeunt] 
 
 HICKORY. And she has gone. There is great 
 emptiness about this place. 
 
 DOGWOOD. She s gone, and though I lean and 
 bend, I cannot follow. 
 
 CHESTNUT. She has gone. Let us together sigh; 
 each other soothing with our murmurous whisper 
 ing; our leaves together clashing in sad grief with 
 whisp ring, rustling, hushing, sighing, soothing; so 
 let us console our grief till she return. 
 HICKORY. I would have given her my sap to 
 drink it is most sweet. 
 
 CHESTNUT. I would have ripened nuts for her 
 they are most sweet. 
 
 DOGWOOD. I would have riped for her my 
 berries bitter are they, but full of spice. 
 SQUIRREL. Hush, stupid and poor, rooted things. 
 The day is hot and I would sleep. Aye! Sigh and 
 whisper rustle ye shall not behold her. She has 
 gone, but I am here, and I would sleep. Cast not on 
 me thy tokens, grey Shellbark. Chestnut, drop not on 
 me thy hedgehog children. Hark! I know your love 
 and need no pricking. Oh! the very sky doth sing 
 to me a lullaby. Hush me to sleep, ye whisperers. 
 
 20 
 
SCENE VI. A COTTAGE AND GRAPE ARBOR. 
 
 Hubert with his hounds. (Sings) 
 
 HE blue, blue sky bends clear and fair, 
 The earth, it joys in giving. 
 There s smell of summer in the air 
 
 And I am glad of living. 
 
 Aye whine, whine when I sing, ye honest Courtiers, 
 Mayhap ye like this better. (Sings) 
 
 Woe, woe is me. By the black, the Cypress tree 
 I lie and moan and moan, 
 Nor close my sight, 
 
 the weary, weary night, 
 
 1 lie alone, alone. 
 
 Be still! Your chorus is more dismal than my song. 
 I like it not myself a silly dirge. There is a scent 
 about me here I seem to know. Tis of the South. 
 A horn blast shall awake your ears, ye bell-mouthed 
 ones. (Blows horn Hounds bay to it. Sings) 
 
 Then up, up, up, the blue is in the sky, 
 The thrushes wake the thicket, 
 And the sparrows wake the thorn. 
 There are dew pearls on the rose-leaf, 
 There is none so glad as I, 
 In the going of the shadow, 
 
 And the coming of the morn. 
 
 
 
 Then up, up, up, the blue is in the sky, 
 There is gold upon the hilltop, 
 And the veil of night is torn. 
 
 21 
 
There is silver on the meadow, 
 And there s none so glad as I, 
 In the going of the shadow, 
 And the coming of the morn. 
 
 I ll race ye to the Forest s Eye. Tis fine to feel it s 
 cool caress when I am hot. Back, Swiftfoot, naughty 
 dog, fair start. Now come. 
 
 SCENE VII. THE POOL CALLED THE FOR 
 EST S EYE. 
 
 Eve and South Wind. 
 
 |VE. I used to think my feet were light but 
 thou hast brought me here as we were air. 
 The clover blossoms white did only nod. 
 SOUTH WIND. It was my mood. The sighs and 
 plaints and wooings of the trees do irk me so I stop 
 my ears and run. Sometimes I ll lie and listen all 
 the day. But now I am impatient with their frets : 
 they have their fate what boots it to complain? Do 
 and wail not, the world rolls on. 
 EVE. Here is the place he lay. 
 SOUTH WIND. And there the place he stood. 
 EVE. I ll into it Mayhap it hath some memory of 
 my god. The very drops which clung to him may 
 cling to me. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. Is this not sweet? So warm- 
 yet cool. 
 
 EVE. So fresh strength giving, splashed away it 
 quick returns in eagerness to kiss and kiss again. It 
 bears me up it clings about. This is the very spot 
 he stood. The shining depths which held him once 
 22 
 
embrace me now. See what a shower of jewels in 
 the sun my hands can toss. 
 
 SOUTH WIND. We ll quarrel! Come! There are 
 dewdrops for thine ey es.There are more.Take these ! 
 EVE. Stop Stop your splashy jewels take my 
 breath. [Enter Hubert. South Wind vanishes] 
 
 OAK HEART. He comes with bow and spear. But 
 little knows the cruel beast is near. Blue butterflies 
 for chamber-maids, the couch is spread. 
 HUBERT. Come in, good dogs. Hark! Psht! There s 
 splashing forward wonderful, how white this is 
 and beautiful. Oh beautiful, most beautiful! The 
 hungry pool does make of one a thousand. Twists 
 each curve into a thousand semblances but none so 
 fine. Tis rare to watch the countless mimicries the 
 happy pool doth make but as the watcher tired of 
 looking at the dimmer moon afloat upon the sleeping 
 stream doth turn in gladness to the sky s bright 
 pearl, so now this creamy soft and pink original 
 rewards my truant sight, makes it unwilling to an 
 instant stray and eager to return. I must have 
 speech with her Aye touch her though I die! O 
 one most beautiful! I pray thee, fear me not. I and 
 my dogs are humble unto thee. 
 EVE. Tis he. Ah! Oh! 
 
 HUBERT. Yea, stare into my very heart: I only 
 pray to touch thy hand, thou art so beautiful. Thou 
 art a daughter of the gods. I could not harm thee if 
 I would. I am a child of earth, but there is in me 
 only melting tenderness for thee. See, I have cast 
 my bow and spear aside. Charge, pretties! Charge! 
 I ll come to thee and take thy hand and lead thee 
 to this sun-gilt spot beneath this beech. 
 
 23 
 
EVE. O, sister where she s gone! I am alone. 
 Fair god. Where is the one who was with me but 
 now before you spoke? 
 HUBERT. I saw none else. 
 
 EVE. I am alone. Fair god, thou rt angry that I 
 stole thy pool. 
 
 HUBERT. I am no god child of the earth I am, 
 and thou a nymph. Ah, me! 
 EVE. Nay, but a daughter of the earth. 
 HUBERT. Art thou, like me, a child of earth? I m 
 glad O, I am very glad! 
 
 EVE. A frail, brief mushroom of the morning. 
 HUBERT. Still bright with dew. So dazzling white 
 and pink. Child of the dawn. Give me thy hand. 
 How soft. How warm. How quivering hot the sun. 
 He pours his glorious flood as if he meant to slay 
 us. Here I ll spread my mantle in this restless 
 shade. These are my dogs they kiss thy rosy 
 feet, as I would too. They love thee well. 
 EVE. O, is the world so bright, or is it thou which 
 shines my eyes? And is the world so still? Mine ears 
 seem dulled I only hear thy voice; my thoughts 
 do choke my words. There is within me such great 
 lightness as would lift me from the earth. 
 HUBERT. As floats the sky lark in morning seas of 
 light upon the bubbles of his song so lifts my heart. 
 EVE. If I were plucked from thee I d wilt as quickly 
 as the maiden fern cast in the sun. Break not this 
 happy spell. 
 
 HUBERT. Cease not thy words. They stir in me a 
 melody which is in tune with old Creation s morn 
 ing hymn. 
 
 EVE. Say on! say on! 
 24 
 
HUBERT. Child of the earth, bright eyed, bright 
 cheeked, white armed, I feel the arrows of thy eyes. 
 I smell thy hair s faint spicery. 
 EVE. My love! I give myself to thee more willing 
 than the lake receives the brook more ready than 
 the earth upturns her steamy April breast unto the 
 sun. More eager than the long-coursed, panting stag 
 drinks from the sweet and crystal rill. Thou art to 
 me more beautiful than winter stars or full orbed 
 moon within the violet east. More lovely than aught 
 other thing this earth affords or gemmy flowers 
 or plumy trees or quick-eyed, painted birds or hind 
 or doe. Thou art the one desired thing; a something 
 draws me to thee as the stars are drawn adown the 
 sky. I am by the great Archer shot upon the target 
 of thy breast. 
 
 HUBERT. Thou art so fair, so white, so warm, so 
 smooth, so soft, so beautiful! 
 EVE. My love! My love! 
 
 HUBERT. The lagging sun hath turned his pin 
 nacle; a hush is coming on; the air is warm. The 
 humble bee treads busily the thistle bloom. Come 
 we unto the shelter of old Oak Heart. 
 EVE. Where thou art, there tis good for me to be. 
 OAK HEART. So is it now to be. As from the first 
 forever so. O, great, hot sun, thou art a master 
 breeder! See! They come. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST PART 
 
 25 
 
THE SECOND PART 
 
 OF THE 
 MASQUE OF LOVE 
 
A MASQUE OF LOVE. THE SECOND PART. 
 SCENE I. THE FOREST. 
 Martin and Philip. 
 
 ARTIN. God, what a night! 
 
 PHILIP. Speak louder, Martin. The 
 
 rude wind howls away your words. 
 
 MARTIN. I say it is a fearful night. 
 
 I would we were well out from here. 
 The trees go down like drunken men. 
 PHILIP. Tis all pitch black. What s that? Again 
 that shuddering groan. 
 
 MARTIN. A sound from Hell. Saints! What crash 
 was that? It faroutcracks the storm. There went a fir 
 was centuries a-building. Let us shelter beneath these 
 dripping canopies as do the hairy, houseless animals, 
 and pray our home be never toppled on our heads. 
 PHILIP. It is a night for murder. 
 MARTIN. Psht! Say not that word. 
 PHILIP. When lulls the storm I hear a crying child. 
 MARTIN. Christ save us! Why did you speak of 
 blood! By flames which split the sky, I saw the 
 witches oak. 
 
 PHILIP. Again that wailing cry. Oh, Christ, we re 
 lost! It is a damned soul. O, Heaven, save! The 
 fiend hath clutched me. 
 
 MARTIN. Stay! You re caught upon this bough. 
 PHILIP. Oh, cock-crow, sound, and come, bright 
 comfortable dawn. 
 
 MARTIN. I would give much to see a window 
 bright. To feel the blazing hearth. 
 PHILIP. There glides a light. 
 
 29 
 
MARTIN. A pale, green, witches light, a lure 
 look not that way. 
 
 PHILIP. Christ keep us from the fury of this night 
 and evil spirits of this wood. I am wet through. The 
 sky has spilt its lees upon me. If I be spared, I ll 
 render what I ve stole. 
 MARTIN. More loud. I cannot hear. 
 PHILIP. Twas naught. 
 
 MARTIN. What fools we were to try this way . Last 
 year in such a storm and in this very wood John Roach 
 was changed into a dog and howling ran into the night. 
 PHILIP. For love of God! Christ spare me and 
 I ll make amend for all my evil deeds. Ill pay the 
 widow Locksley for the calf I stole. 
 MARTIN. I think the gusty fury of the night doth 
 by degrees grow tired, 
 
 PHILIP. Thank God! And, see, the light is battling 
 with the dark. A man will dread the dark by nature 
 as he dreadeth death. 
 MARTIN. A long, dull dark! 
 PHILIP. I ve heard it called a sleep. 
 MARTIN. But who would sleep if he were sure his 
 eyes would never lift again? 
 
 PHILIP. There s something in us fights against this 
 wakeless sleep. A rat will fight to live. 
 MARTIN. With old men tis not so. Theyaretootired. 
 They neither like not death, but it comes to sooth their 
 waywardness e en in the moment while they feebly 
 do rebel like grumbling children. See the morning s 
 chariot is scattering the churlish clouds. The earth 
 wakes newly washed as so it shall, refreshened by 
 a many deluge wrack, when we have slept a thousand 
 thousand years. Let us go on. [Exeunt] 
 
 30 
 
SCENE II. MAGDALEN IN HER ROOM. 
 
 (AGDALEN. Oh, will he never come! How 
 all life ends when he departs and only sings 
 its tune when I can see and hear and touch. 
 How I do hang upon him as a pear sucks sweetness 
 on the parent bough. All sweetness draw I from the 
 riches of his love. When he is absent, what s the 
 world? A stale and gloomy halting place until he 
 come again. And when he comes his presence, like 
 a brighter sun, makes every vein to swell with love s 
 sweet sap. Then is the earth new dressed the 
 skies bend lovelier, and stars come closer to my 
 whispering. Then every flutter of my heart is like 
 a bird in May. I would do anything he said except 
 to share his love. Oh, I am jealous of the maid who 
 makes his bed. Of her who hands him food. A glove, 
 a flower, a leaf, or any paltry thing which he hath 
 held is precious made. I give it kisses I should give 
 to him. I smell it, tuck it twixt my breasts, and like 
 some bedlam fool I love it past comparison. He s 
 more than life to me. He is my soul, my priest, my 
 prince, my breath, my God, my Christ. So wild a 
 night and he abroad. My roof not his my life not 
 his. The days still hurrying into Time s abyss while 
 I sit cheated of my only hope. I must be freed and 
 I will free. This wicked compact marriage which in 
 an hour doth bind the unknown sum of years despite 
 what change may come. Tis wickedness! Prate not 
 of God! Tis fetched from Hell. It is a compact holy 
 as a sale of mares. If we do love, is naught; and if 
 we hate, is naught; how it shall end, is naught. Th 
 inexorable folly still doth claim its sacrifice "till 
 
 31 
 
death doth part." Aye, so! aye, well! Then 
 death shall part. I will summon subtle death to part 
 this superstitious knot. This trick of priests. A 
 lawyer s trick to damn unwedded love and give a 
 parchment air to lust. What s marriage? If true love 
 there be and no marriage, tis well ; and if there be no 
 marriage and no love, tis well; but if there be but 
 marriage and no love, tis Hell. But then tis Hell 
 respectable. It is an echo from the market place 
 where woman had her body as her one poor price. 
 And chastity! I like this virtue of the silken dame 
 who, egged by brethren, sisters, mother too, doth 
 coolly make her market for her merchandise, and 
 bait the victim with suggestions of her wares. She 
 strikes an altar bargain to some worn-out rake or 
 dotard whose too withered age is foul to think on 
 next her fresh virginity. But lawful marriage keeps 
 her chaste a most chaste prostitute. And that poor 
 sister whose strong love doth make her weak she 
 is not chaste. Lawful! Lawful! I like that word 
 "Lawful." Who made that law? And she a leaf in 
 Nature s whirlwind caught, who seeks, who thinks 
 no other thing but Nature s love why she! she is 
 not virtuous. Her love, too blind, has cut the very 
 stick which drives her to the street. [Enter Edwin] 
 EDWIN. Hush! Come not nigh me. I am wet. 
 MAGDALEN. I come not nigh thee! Come not nigh 
 to Heaven! Not to my salvation! Not to life or soul! 
 At last I hold thee in my arms. My very god! 
 EDWIN. I m wet. I ll wet thee, dear one. There, 
 I fear for thee. 
 
 MAGDALEN. It is but water. Were it blood, and 
 blood of all my kin, I d take it from thee deeming 
 32 
 
only precious that it came from thee. I love thee, 
 Sweet. 
 
 EDWIN. My darling, sweetest heart, wife of my 
 soul. Tho not my wife. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Who is it says I must be wife where 
 I love not? What is the right to make me wife where 
 is no love? The Law! The Law has got me in its 
 iron clutch and those who love the Law will mock 
 me. Well! Then let the Law beware. "Till Death us 
 part." I ll summon Death, black-winged and terrible. 
 Come, Death, and part the chains of infamy. 
 EDWIN. Hush. Thou dost rave. 
 MAGDALEN. I rave not. See, my hand is firm. 
 Shall I just sit and let my one and only life run out, 
 nor live with thee? Nor call thee mate? Not love 
 thee with a high and open pride? Shall I descend into 
 the grave and never know this only Heaven? No! 
 I ll kill! What s he to me? A block to be removed. 
 Why, what s this life? Tis breath. Tis taken daily for 
 our food. He bars my road to Heaven. So I ll put 
 him from my path. I ll be the slave of Law no more. 
 And you shall wed me take me hold me own 
 me in the face of priests and all this foolish world. I 
 know no Hell except to dwell apart from thee. 
 EDWIN. I am afraid, afraid of men and something 
 we call God. Afraid of mine own soul in watches 
 of the night and when I too shall come to die. Are 
 we not happy in our love? 
 
 MAGDALEN. Twice no! Not I. I want you all my 
 life. I want your name, your love, your child. There 
 is a canker eating out my happiness. I ll face the Law 
 and my own death-bed too as I had killed a dog. 
 EDWIN. Hark! 
 
 33 
 
MAGDALEN. Twas but a shutter, swinging in the 
 wind. 
 
 EDWIN. Is t the house which trembles or myself? 
 MAGDALEN. The house doth shake with fury of 
 the storm. 
 
 EDWIN. It is an awful night to cast a soul adrift! 
 Sweetheart, not yet. 
 
 MAGDALEN. O! You ll not love me if I do t. Your 
 love will turn against that so great love which 
 thought black murder but a little thing for thy 
 love s sake? 
 
 EDWIN. Nay, nay. I am locked up in that hot 
 passion of thy love. I d love thee tho I saw thee kill 
 my father aye, I d love thee! 
 MAGDALEN. What is death! How gladly would I 
 rather die than live this life of wasting. Death s but 
 a fading back to earth. The end of strife, the endless 
 peace. How often have I stood above him as he slept 
 and longed to do this little thing would let him 
 sleep much more I do not wish his life, but I ll not 
 be a flouted, jeered and scorned prostitute because 
 I will not be a prostitute. The hangman slays not 
 what poor wretch he hangs. It is the law, and so I 
 slay not; it is the law. Their vaunted, boasted, holy 
 law. That man-made thing which perfect is and 
 cannot err. Go thou in here; Lay off thy sodden 
 things and wrap thee in this cloak of mine and in 
 my love. 
 
 [Edwin enters an inner chamber. Enter servant] 
 SERVANT. Madam, my master begs you to come 
 to him. [Exit Servant] 
 
 MAGDALEN. I ll come to him with leaden wings 
 outstretched, deep breedings in my eyes; and in 
 34 
 
my heart. "What s Death but sleep a long, long 
 sleep a dreamless sleep. And sleep is what tired 
 men do most desire. [Exit Magdalen] 
 
 SCENE III. A BED ROOM. 
 
 Anthony in his bed. Enter Magdalen. 
 
 |AGDALEN. mDid you desire e here? 
 
 ANTHONY. I do desire you. How wild a 
 
 storm. It shakes the house. 
 MAGDALEN. It is a night in which to die. 
 ANTHONY. Most nights are fit to die in if we 
 must, and none if we may choose. But you are far 
 from death and I shall cheat him many a year. Talk 
 not of dying. Come kiss me. I m your lord. 
 MAGDALEN. I love you not. I was appraised 
 you paid the price and I, young fool, pushed by the 
 will of her who gave me birth and should have been 
 my guide, I was well sold. I love you not. I ve told 
 you so. 
 
 ANTHONY. By God! You shall. What is this 
 whimsy, prating, school-girl appetite called love 
 which is so delicate? Which will just feed upon the 
 flower it will, and pass a better by. Eh! Eh! Which 
 cannot be compelled. Aha! Cold time and I shall 
 change thy tune. I have thee, and I ll have thy love. 
 MAGDALEN. Perhaps. How long a time is one 
 swift petty year! I ve brought your sleeping 
 draught. I ll be your nurse but not your love. 
 ANTHONY. I am no friend of sleep. That vacant 
 time. That helpless, mimic death. The world, the 
 bustle, strife, the warring competition to be first 
 tis that I love. I grudge these hours to sleep. 
 
 35 
 
MAGDALEN. Then take it not. I ll leave it here 
 and when the lonely hours oppress thee, it is here. 
 ANTHONY. Stay. I will not be alone. 
 MAGDALEN. I ll stay. I think you bought that 
 much. 
 
 ANTHONY. I think so too. Now give it me. A man 
 must sleep. There was a time upon the hardest 
 floor I needed none of drugs to give me sleep. Ah! 
 When I wake, the world will seem new made. 
 
 [She gives him the poison to drink] 
 MAGDALEN. Aye, when you wake (Aside) how 
 old the earth will be. Good-night. 
 ANTHONY. Tis not good-night. I never knew a 
 worse. I never heard the wind to bellow so and 
 this old house is trembling in its bed. 
 MAGDALEN. Tis so. This night will be long. 
 ANTHONY. But if I sleep twill not be long. It will 
 be as if the storm were hushed, all turbulence were 
 o er. For what 1 know not of doth not exist for me. 
 MAGDALEN. Most true, and so is heavy-lidded 
 sleep a boon. 
 
 ANTHONY. Pish! If that I knew my eyes would 
 close in death to see no more the sun or moon or 
 stars my ears no more again to hear a sound; my 
 tongue to rot and earth for me to end, I would not 
 sleep though all the fiends of Hell did drag my 
 eyelids down. It is a noisy night. When I do wake, 
 I hope the world will smile. 
 
 [He falls into a stupor. Enter Edwin] 
 MAGDALEN. Tis done, he sleeps. 
 EDWIN. Will he not wake? 
 
 MAGDALEN. Not till the dead awake. Come, kiss 
 me. Show thou lovest me still, and more. 
 36 
 
EDWIN. I do I do I do! 
 
 [Kisses her and Anthony awakes] 
 ANTHONY. False! False! False! Murdered! Mur 
 dered! False! False! False! I dream I sleep. I 
 
 [He falls into a stupor] 
 
 MAGDALEN. He ll never look or speak again. 
 EDWIN. How his dull eye did freeze my soul 
 he breathes and might be saved. 
 MAGDALEN. He hath by now got far upon that 
 road on which no step points back. Come, Sweet 
 heart, love me if you d have me know your love is 
 not by this made cool. I had no hatred for this man, 
 save that he barred my path to thee; for thee I gave 
 him sleep. Twas all for thee. 
 
 EDWIN. God, tis a fearful night. How shakes the 
 house in every joint, and what a din of noises start 
 the ear. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Aye, tis a solemn night, for I have 
 blotted out that lamp was lit so many countless centu 
 ries ago. I ve quenched the flame which so precious 
 is, the busy little ant will fight to keep it quick. I ve 
 broke the crystal globe. It lies now all in useless 
 bits. I ve been a thief and stole a priceless gem 
 which I can never give again. I ve thrust rude gravel 
 twixt the subtle wheels so delicate we cannot guess at 
 their machinery. I ve robbed that dull and careless 
 body there of wit and sight and sense and taste and 
 talk and motion; all! Made blank and unconsidered 
 day and night; the robin s song and springtime s 
 green and winter white ; dulled evermore that ear to 
 music, and to love or revelry. That tongue to wine. 
 I ve ta en the vital spark and left a slow dissolving 
 clod. And all for love. O, thou in me shalt light the 
 
 37 
 
spark of life I have put out; and call me wife. I ll 
 bear thee children. 1 am all mad for love. 
 EDWIN. This room and that upon the bed is terrible 
 to me. Let us go hence. 
 
 MAGDALEN. The clouds are blown the morning 
 comes. Oh, what a heartener is the sun. 
 EDWIN. What s that! [A knocking is heard] 
 
 MAGDALEN. You must not stay twould peril 
 thee. Good-night, good morning and good-by till 
 here you come to safely lie. 
 
 [Exit Edwin hastily and lets fall a handkerchief. 
 Enter Benjamin] 
 
 MAGDALEN. Your master, Benjamin, is dead. Put 
 all in order. Mend the fire. A fire gone out cannot 
 be lit again. [Exit Magdalen] 
 
 BENJAMIN. Here is a handkerchief! I know it well. 
 Tis lettered, too, and well and I could guess tis by 
 my mistress hands. It is Edwin Graves . How fine 
 it is. How senseless dumb. Yet every thread might 
 cry aloud, Murder ! 
 
 [Puts it in his pocket and goes out] 
 
 SCENE IV. THE HALL OF MAGDALEN S 
 HOUSE. 
 
 Enter Martin and Philip. 
 
 |ARTIN. Now is the time to reckon up thy 
 ill and cheating deeds thou sworest to make 
 amend. 
 
 PHILIP. That was last night. The sun is shining 
 now and shows me what a fool I was. 
 MARTIN. I do remember me the calf you stole 
 from Widow Locksley. 
 38 
 
PHILIP. Hell take your memory! Hsh! Here she 
 
 comes. [Enter Magdalen] 
 
 MAGDALEN. Ye were out in all the storm. It was 
 
 a wild night. 
 
 MARTIN. It was indeed. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Aye! indeed. 
 
 [Enter Samuel, with servants and others] 
 SAMUEL. The night was wild and wild its work. 
 Mistress, have you heard the news? 
 MAGDALEN. What news? 
 
 SAMUEL. The ancient oak in the stony field is 
 down and lifted with its roots a half the field and 
 picked between the fingers of the roots a skull with 
 rusty, dainty, jeweled dagger through the eye. Here 
 is a mystery. 
 
 SERVANT. I now am old and in my boyhood s 
 time I used to sit beside the fire on howling winter 
 nights and hear my grandsire tell of this same 
 haunted field, wherein on fearful nights a spirit 
 walked crying, "False! False! False!" A woman 
 followed after, wringing ghostly hands. 
 MAGDALEN. Be still with foolish tales. I forbid 
 you speak of this to fright the ignorant. 
 SAMUEL. There s news that s not of ghosts. 
 MAGDALEN. Well? 
 
 SAMUEL. At William Miller s mill, there at the 
 headgate in the pond, among all sticks brought by 
 the flood, this morning showed the death-white face 
 of Farmer Hodges little Bess, just turned eighteen. 
 She and her unborn babe there mid the wreck as if it 
 were Heaven s gate which patiently she knocked at. 
 MAGDALEN. Poor child! Poor child! You, Samuel, 
 shall carry her unto her home and go you to the 
 
 39 
 
priest and say I ll bear the cost of her most decent 
 burial. 
 
 SAMUEL, Nay, not in holy ground. She is by 
 church accursed. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Curse on the Church which curses the 
 dumb dead or frowns upon the sinful, saddened 
 heart. Then I will take her from the church and 
 bury her on Acorn Hill among the first of violets. 
 There let her outcast body melt to flowers and 
 decorate the aisles of Nature s silent, sweet cathedral. 
 SAMUEL. The trysting elm is fall n across the road 
 and everywhere lie trees as if they had been stubble 
 trampled down, and in a furrow of the Three Oak 
 field a new-born babe, dead as a rat. 
 
 [Enter Michael] 
 
 MICHAEL. There s fearful news in th village. 
 MAGDALEN. Say on. This seems a judgment day. 
 MICHAEL. Murder, love and murder. John De- 
 brow returned unto his home to find his home 
 betrayed. He cut their throats, as there they lay, 
 and then his own. The place baptized in blood, and 
 sprawling in a pool of mingled blood his orphaned 
 babe. 
 
 MAGDALEN. My God! My God! What is this fiend 
 called Love, which thou hast put to rule the world? 
 What hellish devil is black Jealousy! That blackest 
 shadow of white love. That warted, all distorted, 
 monstrous thing which sits upon the ear of Love and 
 whispers, "Madness!" Go your ways. This is the 
 house of Death. My husband is dead. Go, all. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Magdalen] 
 
 MAGDALEN. There is a poison in the flower of Sin. 
 It s fruit no sooner tasted than it cloys. No quicker 
 40 
 
had than sets a ferment in which turns the sweet to 
 sour. I fear his love will faint at my red hand. I fear 
 that I shall lose his love for that which I did do to 
 keep his love. Come that come death. I d rather 
 sleep than bear about a daily aching heart. I d rather 
 sleep than daily starve. I d rather hug at once the 
 long and dreamless sleep than daily die. But he shall 
 love. Within my heart such lakes of deep affection 
 are as man has never known. He shall not wed me. 
 I will leave him free. It is the iron tie which is the 
 curse of love. The law it is, not love, which murders, 
 shames, turns joy to hell. Yea, I ll build our love 
 on friendship s solid rock. I ll be that pool about 
 whose edge he likes to linger, plucking flowers or 
 lying down to dream, or drinking strength, or plung- 
 ing in come out new-made and clean. 
 
 SCENE V. MAGDALEN S CHAMBER. 
 
 AGD ALEN. I have done that to own his love 
 which women shrink to do; and lost his love 
 because of that I did. There is a creeping mil 
 dew growing on his once so forward eagerness. Oh, 
 God! Oh, God! I hear a whisper from the groaning 
 vaults of Hell, where I must lie. [Enter Edwin] 
 My love, my lover, and my life ! All blessings on you. 
 Thou art the sun which drinks these writhing vapors 
 of the mind and lets the sky show through. All hor 
 rors flee before thee as do children s fears in morning 
 light. 
 
 EDWIN. You give your love too wastefully. You 
 have no other thought. This is not good. 
 MAGDALEN. Nay, is it not? Can ever be too much 
 
 41 
 
of good? Doth good afflict? If love be truly good, 
 methinks the more tis piled with eager hands, the 
 richer is the one who takes. 
 
 EDWIN. Love is a sweet, and most endures if Lent 
 is sometimes kept. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Speak not of Lenten love to me. My 
 hungry soul would starve into a ghost too pitiful, and 
 die. Starve not my thirsty soul with meagre Lent, 
 dear heart. Stretch not my longing on a purgatory 
 rack because of some pale theory of love. The utter 
 height of truest love doth scorn to think Love is not 
 reasonable. It is a madness preciouser than health. A 
 phrensy which obscures the sodden earth, and sets 
 the winged feet to trip upon the sunrise battlements. 
 Thou art my love, my life, my everything. See how 
 the fruitful earth expands her bosom to the sun, and 
 more and more as pour the fiery rays, so more 
 and more the verdure comes and leafage beautifies 
 our summer world. So I do ope my bosom to thy 
 sun of love. I ll drink the blaze, put forth the buds 
 and tendrils of my joy, and ever long for more. 
 To those who live in body and in friendship of the 
 mind, there s no such thing as surfeiting on love. 
 EDWIN. Such love would burn its fruits as weeds 
 upon a rock in drought. You make too much of love. 
 MAGDALEN. Aye! So I do. It is my life. 
 EDWIN. When shall I marry you? 
 MAGDALEN. Never. What s marriage unto me? 
 You know I scorn the marrying rites of priests, and 
 laws which make a mockery. True marriage needs 
 but two. That marriage we have had and that, dear 
 Christ, I ve lost! A chilling change stands bodily 
 before my eyes. Tis palpable. I fold my battered 
 42 
 
wings and close my eyes. You talk of marriage from 
 a dutiful and cooling heart. Such marriage is to me 
 but Hell and whoredom, though all the stale machin 
 ery of man with solemn clank should forge the chain. 
 EDWIN. Nay, Magdalen. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Nay, Edwin, let not pity prompt 
 thee unto lies. I d die to-night with smiling lips if I 
 might have that love for one short hour which once 
 I had, and for I love thee so, I know thou lovest me 
 not. I know thy love hath fled on frightened wings 
 because of my bad deed. 
 EDWIN. I love thee, Magdalen. I do I do. 
 MAGDALEN. Oh, God, tis sweet to hear the lie we 
 long for. Kiss me, Sweet, and kiss me close and oft 
 while still I hear those words. Oh, Sweetheart, doest 
 thou think it can be so? I thought that I might teach 
 thee how to love me o er again. I d lie so dog-like 
 faithful at thy feet. I d work so hard to win thy love. 
 Thou wouldst not need to move thy lips; I d guess 
 thy thoughts. Doest think thou canst forget I am a 
 murderer? 
 
 EDWIN. For God s sake, hush use not that word. 
 MAGDALEN. Hast not thou used it in thy heart? 
 EDWIN. Why probe me with these useless ques 
 tionings? 
 
 MAGDALEN. Truth is never useless, howe er it 
 hurts. Let me ask thee but one question and answer 
 on thy soul as at the judgment bar. Thy love is less 
 I know. I ask not that, alas! A woman need not ask 
 if love be sick. Canst thou beneath the twinkling 
 vault of night, when silence is, still draw me close 
 and in the throbbing hush forget this deed 1 did for 
 love of thee? I charge thee answer on thy soul. 
 
 43 
 
EDWIN. I charge thee ask me not such question 
 ings. Thou art half mad. I say I ll marry thee. 
 MAGDALEN. Thou hast me answered. And I did 
 need it not. Oh, how we hope and hope, and longing, 
 hope against the dread which certainly we know. I 
 knew, I knew, I knew most sure. And yet I hoped 
 as do the vile condemned. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, 
 God! Now let me die. I shall go mad. God send 
 me gentle death. 
 
 EDWIN. Hush! Hush! [Enter Sheriff] 
 
 SHERIFF. (To Edwin) I do arrest thee for the crime 
 of murder done upon the body of one Anthony 
 McLane. Here is the writ. 
 EDWIN. What s this! Of murder, say you? I! 
 SHERIFF. Here is the writ. This is your name? 
 EDWIN. It is my name. For murder of your hus 
 band. I ll go with thee and prove my innocence. 
 MAGDALEN. Is there no writ for me? 
 SHERIFF. No. None. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Then justice limps most cruelly. I ll 
 go unbid. As outcasts from the flock still follow 
 tho undrove. 
 
 EDWIN. Nay. If thoulovest me stay! Tis wise for 
 thee for me. There is no haste. I ll keep thee well 
 advised. I charge thee for the moment stay. Be not 
 alarmed. This matter will soon pass. I charge thee 
 on thy love, do as I bid. 
 
 MAGDALEN. I ll do what er thou bid st me do, 
 and yet I suffer too, too much. 
 EDWIN. Farewell, and truly, fare -thee -well. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Magdalen] 
 
 MAGDALEN. Just God, here is the end. There 
 yawns my grave. Here at my very feet. It looks so 
 44 
 
black. One step and I am in. My flesh from dark 
 oblivion shrinks, but, Oh ! I think my weary soul will 
 be a little glad to sleep, such long, long sleep. Time 
 shall have ceased and noise of tears. The sun for 
 me is dead. I ll see and hear no more. Though he 
 should shout into mine ear, "Come back! I love 
 thee! Love thee as before! I love thee as no child 
 of loving Eve was ever loved" why, even then, 
 I shall not hear. I cannot come. My ears are stopped; 
 my eyes are shut; my mouth is stuffed. Dead! Dead! 
 Gone back unto the cool, caressing grass, the kind, 
 slow sisterhood of weeds. Ah! Ah! Oh, God! 
 
 SCENE VI. THE HALL OF MAGDALEN S 
 HOUSE. 
 
 Servants and Martin. 
 
 |IRST SERVANT. You, Martin, are to wait 
 my mistress here. What news from court? 
 MARTIN. Bad news for some and good for 
 
 others, as news ever is. 
 
 SECOND SERVANT. How doth the trial go? 
 
 MARTIN. Why, not as some would wish and to 
 
 the gayety of some. 
 
 FIRST SERVANT. Friend Martin s like a fortune 
 
 teller, who looks wise and talks in doubles so he 
 
 cannot fail. 
 
 SECOND SERVANT. Or like a politician, saying 
 
 much and meaning naught. But truly, Martin, tell 
 
 us of the news. 
 
 MARTIN. I will, and gladly, to your mistress. 
 
 FIRST SERVANT. Till then we ll wait for thee 
 
 below. [Exit Servants. Enter Magdalen] 
 
 45 
 
MAGDALEN. What news, good Martin? Oh, what 
 news? I am as one enjailed and fed on husks. I 
 starve into a fever. Tell me, what s the news? 
 MARTIN. Dear lady, day by day, like some old cat, 
 I ve passed from there to here and here to there. Still 
 bearing provender to thee. And so I come. He bids 
 thee be of heart and hope and as you love his life 
 keep to yourself as you have done at his command. 
 MAGDALEN. I love his life above my soul. I am 
 his wife, if ever God, not man, made wives. Oh, 
 Martin, I, his wife, I should be there, not here. Is 
 this a way to do? Why does he make me suffer exile 
 from all I ought to be and all I long to do? Nay, 
 tell me, I conjure you, by your soul, the truth. The 
 very truth. Make my wet eyes to see the very scenes 
 of truth and not the hideous things which for too long 
 have danced on emptiness before my gaze. Ill love 
 thee for t. Speak. Speak, man, speak! By your 
 mother s soul, the truth. 
 
 MARTIN. Aye, by the living God, I will! Tis thus. 
 It is my opinion he stands on the very gallows steps. 
 Why, I myself did testify that on the morrow of the 
 storm I met him at your door. I must do so; twas 
 true and that too crafty villain Philip swore to this 
 and more which I saw not nor think he saw. It 
 hath been proved your husband died of poison, not 
 disease, and many swear that Mister Graves was 
 constantly your visitor. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Enough. Get harness on the swiftest 
 horses of my stalls, Red Rob and Cruelty. Thou lt 
 take me to the court. 
 
 MARTIN. It is forbidden by his strict command. 
 MAGDALEN. And I would follow his command 
 46 
 
as slavish as a dog but there s a time tis pious to 
 rebel and good to disobey. I ll sit amid the fearful 
 hatchings of my brain no more. What! Dumb and 
 tied, must I see him, the one I love, swept on to 
 death? Go! Haste! 
 
 [Exit Martin. Enter William Robbins] 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. Good morning, Madam. 
 Beauty still doth find your cheek her resting place. 
 MAGDALEN. Good morning, sir. Talk not of 
 beauty to the cheek that s ready for the worm. 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. Good Lord! 
 MAGDALEN. Nay, say it not as one who s pricked 
 his thumb, but with resigned and streaming eyes 
 say most pathetical, Good Lord! Cry from the 
 heaving depths of a most pitiful and bleeding heart, 
 Good Lord! How strange is use and childish fibre 
 in the mind. I do believe there is no Lord, and yet 
 I cry from off this sinking raft I call my life Good 
 Lord! Help me, Good Lord! 
 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. Do you, a woman, think 
 there is no God, and shut yourself from pious 
 comfortings? 
 
 MAGDALEN. And who shall say there is a God? 
 A wise and loving master of the whole machine. 
 No, no, I pray you mark the tears of misery, the 
 narrow bed and starving crust of Virtue; Vice in 
 gilded coach with lackeyed ease. The noble raped 
 by death; the most vile spared. The little children 
 fed to giant Want. The wicked strong triumphant, 
 and the glorious weak close penned in camps of 
 death. See how, with blind indifference, the fairest 
 flower of all is broke and weeds are left to grow. 
 Is there a God you think who having power to stop 
 47 
 
the agonized tear and smooth the jars of this too 
 rough and topsy-turvey world would sleep indiffer 
 ent and deaf? There s not a wreck but answers, No ! 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. Believe me, this is dreadful 
 to the true religious heart. Twill surely shock the 
 world. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Why, if tis true, the world must be 
 resigned, and if not true, it matters not. 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I think you are not well, and 
 yet you look not ill. 
 
 MAGDALEN. So much the worse, for I am ill. 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I do regret this much. I came 
 to speak of Edwin Graves and you. It grieves my 
 soul to see him thus, for there s no help. Tis proved 
 that he must die. Your life stands too in peril, but 
 may yet be saved. 
 
 MAGDALEN. My life in peril? I thank thee, God! 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. You live retired; you hear 
 it not. But you are in peril. Yet if, as I should say, 
 you would and I see not why you would not if 
 you would come beneath my sure protection and 
 my love, they would not dare to touch what was 
 mine own. I am rich and am a godly man. 
 MAGDALEN. Why, he is innocent. The law doth 
 surely not desire the innocent to die. 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. Nay, he is doomed. For him 
 I can do naught, nor will. But you 
 MAGDALEN. What was it you said? 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I said I say 
 MAGDALEN. Nay, what you said or say is naught 
 to me. I am not well. I beg you go. 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I say if that you will not link 
 your fate with mine you ll die. 
 48 
 
MAGDALEN, Aye, so I think. I think so too. Death 
 
 is a master hard to cheat. 
 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I mean upon the scaffold 
 
 shamefully you ll die. 
 
 MAGDALEN. I think the dead do little heed what 
 
 way they died. 
 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I come to save you. Sure 
 
 the young and beautiful like not to die. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Then learn from me, about to die, 
 
 that Love s not purchaseable. That in this busy 
 
 world are women who will die for love; and love 
 
 being denied, all life is gone; the green earth is dried 
 
 and shriveled; no laughter in the brooks; no song 
 
 in birds; no comfort in the whisperings of fringed 
 
 trees. And if they cannot have the very love they 
 
 crave, they creep away with broken wing to die. I 
 
 say to you, prepare for death ! You have much need. 
 
 I see a death glow on your cheek, a death dank in 
 
 your hair. Go you, prepare to die. You are but flesh, 
 
 and flesh is soil for death. Death is your bride. 
 
 You need not seek her. She is on your track and 
 
 pressing on. Prepare I say 
 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. I think she s going mad. 
 
 [Enter MartinJ 
 MARTIN. All is prepared. 
 
 MAGDALEN. And so we go to my grave I, and 
 you to yours. Come, Martin, haste. I never was so 
 feverish for cool, fair death. 
 
 [Exit Magdalen and Martin] 
 WILLIAM ROBBINS. She s mad! She s mad! 
 
 49 
 
SCENE VII. THE COURT ROOM. 
 
 Judge, Jury, Clerk, Bailiffs, Prosecuting Attorney 
 and others. 
 
 JUDGE. Bring in the prisoner. [Enter Sheriff 
 
 with Edwin] 
 
 ATTORNEY. One word. (To Edwin) Again 
 I say, you stand in peril of your life. A woman s 
 presence oft is eloquent and pity puts to rout the 
 strongest proof. I pray you let me bid her come. 
 Tis most imperative. 
 
 EDWIN. Again I say I will not have her here. Let 
 us go on. 
 
 ATTORNEY. I m ready, please the Court. 
 JUDGE. Now call the jury roll. 
 
 [Roll is called. All answer] 
 CLERK. The jury is complete. 
 JUDGE. The trial may proceed. 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. Let Benjamin 
 Badeau resume the stand. [Benjamin stands forth] 
 Conclude your evidence. 
 BENJAMIN. Must I go on? 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. You must. 
 BENJAMIN. The night my master died it was a 
 wild and dismal night I crept with silent steps 
 and awe -held breath into the chamber of the 
 dead. 
 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. For what? 
 BENJAMIN. To mend the fire. 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. Go on. 
 BENJAMIN. There was no sound but slow death 
 ticking of a clock and on his bed my master slept 
 or what had been my master lay as if asleep and 
 50 
 
here, beside his bed, upon the floor he could have 
 touched it lay this handkerchief. 
 
 [Enter Magdalen] 
 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. This handkerchief? 
 BENJAMIN. This handkerchief. 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. Whose is this 
 handkerchief? 
 
 BENJAMIN. It is the prisoner s. 
 MAGDALEN. I charge you stop! Why vex the 
 world with all this tedious circumstance when 
 Truth stands ready at your hand? I killed my 
 husband I 
 
 EDWIN. For God s sake, Magdalen! 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. May it please the 
 Court, we do object. 
 MAGDALEN. Object! Object to truth! 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. There will be a 
 proper time for this; not now. 
 MAGDALEN. Forgive my ignorance. I did sup 
 pose all rules were meant to point the honest way 
 and every rule would bend to save a life. I say 
 twas I alone who killed my husband. 
 JUDGE. The law is tender of a life and will not let 
 you, unadvised, proclaim your guilt and seek a 
 shameful death. 
 
 MAGDALEN. Is law so tender of a life it will not 
 let me tell the truth to save one innocent, but puts 
 its shutters up and bars its doors? I say again, twas 
 I alone who killed my husband. There s no power 
 of God, or man, or long delay, or prison fare, or 
 death will make me alter in this truth. 
 JUDGE. I do advise you all you say may on your 
 trial be retold against you. 
 
 51 
 
MAGDALEN. I do so understand. Why not? Tis 
 true. 
 
 JUDGE. Let her be sworn. 
 
 PROSECUTING ATTORNEY. But we object. 
 The prosecution has not closed. 
 JUDGE. Are you the advocate for truth or death? 
 I say I ll hear her now. Let her be sworn. 
 CLERK. You, Magdalen McLane, do swear to tell 
 the truth and all the truth and nothing but the truth, 
 so help you God? 
 
 MAGDALEN. I do so help me God. So help me 
 God! Oh, I have need of help. My story is soon 
 told. It is not new. I loved not when I wed. Therein 
 was I to blame but I was very young and after 
 wedding I recoiled into some arctic, love-deserted 
 place and pushed my husband out. And then I 
 loved another man. Oh, I was bred religiously. I 
 knelt beside my narrow bed and prayed for help. 
 I clenched my fist against the far, dumb sky. I wept 
 upon my arms and often knelt the long night through 
 with sobbing moans beseeching God to tear this 
 devil, love, from out my heart. It fed upon my tears. 
 I was possessed of love. I have not seen another 
 one who loved as I. It drew my very soul as is the 
 battling and rebellious sea drawn into tides, or as 
 the earth is drawn upon her wind-swept path. I 
 could not more resist, and blind with happiness, 
 and soothed, I said, "God s will be done." So lost 
 myself in him who is the sun and center of my 
 universe. I knew no shame. I felt a greater than a 
 priest had blessed; a law, not made by man, had 
 ratified. I told my husband all and begged release. 
 He held me tighter in his lawful bond. His lawful 
 52 
 
bond! A madness seized my mind. "If I were 
 free if I were free if only I were free. The home, 
 the happiness, the child, the bliss as perfect as a 
 half-wrecked vessel finds when out of all the wild 
 tumultuous roar she rounds some sheltering cape 
 and rides mid little, playful waves." Then came this 
 sickness and I said unto myself, "He holds me by 
 the law until Death do part. Then Death shall part." 
 The poison, ready to my hand, I gave it him. But all 
 for love. Indeed I did, I did it all for love. I would 
 have been so glad to have him live. I hate not any 
 one, but I did love too much. My love, my Edwin, 
 was with me that night. It was a wild and terrible 
 night, and when the thing was done by me alone I 
 called him in and he stood fixed displeased. My 
 heart, like some spring flower which feels the frost, 
 grew chill, for I did know that in that instant he had 
 changed to me, and there he dropped his hand 
 kerchief and my poor life. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, 
 God! 
 
 EDWIN. She is o er wrought. Quick! She falls. 
 JUDGE. Call a physician. 
 
 EDWIN. See! Her spirit hath repented of its flight 
 and now resumes its earthly tenement. She breathes. 
 She opes her eyes. Tis I. Tis Edwin, Magdalen! 
 MAGDALEN. Nay, let me rise. I know you well. 
 You are that ghost which dogs my heels and cries 
 into my ear, False! False! False! 
 EDWIN. My God! Her looks! I m Edwin. Look. 
 I am your very Edwin! 
 
 MAGDALEN. My very Edwin! No I know you, 
 Edwin, and I am not mad. You are not my Edwin, 
 for I am the bride of worms. I killed my husband. 
 
 53 
 
You do know that true and so I killed your love 
 and so I die. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. She is not mad. She knows her words. 
 JUDGE. Then must she tread the gallows step. 
 Alas, the pigmy clumsiness of man take her from 
 hence. O, what a fragile ball we juggle with! 
 
 END OF THE SECOND PART 
 
 54 
 
THE THIRD PART 
 
 OF THE 
 MASQUE OF LOVE 
 
A MASQUE OF LOVE: THE THIRD PART. 
 
 SCENE I. A WREN SINGING ON A COTTAGE 
 ROOF-PEAK. 
 
 SONG OF THE WREN. 
 
 | WAKE! Awake! Awake! Let all things 
 awake and praise the coming of the sun. 
 Behold the East is flushing the silent 
 night has gone and the jubilant day com- 
 eth. Sing! Sing! Sing! Let every living 
 thing sing the gladness of its life unto the god of light. 
 See! See! See! His arrows shoot into the silvern 
 sky. He is coming. All things hush! He bursts upon 
 the world. The sky is blue again. The sun has come. 
 O, warm and beautiful god! How beautiful is the 
 world! How glorious is the morning! The sun work - 
 eth the springtime. Spring is tip-toeing upon the hills. 
 He will awaken the earth with kisses. Sing out my 
 heart until my throat doth almost burst. I am full of 
 love. I sing to thee, and for thee, my little brown 
 mate. Oh, how sweet thou art how soft and warm 
 and delicate. A hunger for thee consumes me, my 
 lovely one. How prettily you fly. How daintily you 
 swing upon the rose twig. How quick is the turn of 
 your neck. How bright are your eyes. Oh, I must 
 pursue you, my little, brown, beautiful one. There is 
 something which calls me to thee which binds me 
 to thee. Let me sing or I shall die. Sing! Sing! Sing! 
 the love madness, the life gladness which is within 
 me. I sing to the beautiful blue sky to the smiling 
 brown earth, now blushing green opening and 
 budding everywhere starred all over with the 
 
 57 
 
crocuses and jonquils, dandelions and violets and 
 snowdrops. The peeping buds of willow and of 
 birch prick their stems. The alder the maple 
 the chestnut and all trees are awakening. See! 
 See! See! my tiny, brown feather-ball, here it is. 
 Here is the dark secure little chamber where I came 
 to life. Here we shall have young ones. Here, amid 
 the roses, in this little hole close up under the roof. 
 Here you shall sit upon the dear speckled eggs 
 which we shall love so much. Quick! Quick! Grass 
 and straw and hair caught for us by the bushes from 
 the kindly cows and horses of the pasture. Kind 
 bushes! And down for the lining, soft as thy 
 breast. My little one, my warm, little feather-ball. 
 Quick! Quick! I cannot wait. O, god of day! O, 
 beautiful sky and budding things, I have poured out 
 my heart to ye! I have told ye my love. The sun 
 is now looking at me. He tells us to work and build 
 our home. Quick! Quick! My sweet, little brown 
 mate. Let us build our home and make ready for 
 the little ones. Oh, how anxiously we shall feed 
 them. Come! Come! Come! 
 
 [Enter Mary and Alfred] 
 
 ALFRED. Hail morning! Ruddy and sweet and 
 born anew. 
 
 MARY. The wrens have returned. How wonderful ! 
 At the appointed hour, from the far Southland, 
 through haunting perils, they appear and begin the 
 making of a home. How tender is the God who 
 hath preserved them. 
 
 ALFRED. There is no such God! Nay! In the long 
 flight many have fallen. How cruel is the God who 
 hath permitted their death! Nay! There is none 
 58 
 
such, cruel or pitiful, but only one great law, neither 
 cruel nor merciful, but only just. 
 MARY. No God! 
 
 ALFRED. Gods are the creatures of man, changing 
 as man changes. The God of Asia is not the God of 
 Europe. The God of Moses not the God of today. 
 The divine commands of one age are the horrors 
 of another age. Nay, Sweetheart, let us not rest upon 
 a God, but upon ourselves, with hope in the working 
 of the universal law and resignation to the universal 
 end. We are but visions of a moment. How endless 
 is the life procession! Millions have been and shall 
 be. Creation was not for us, ourselves. Nay, not for 
 man chief insect on this pettiest ball. Let us meet 
 the waves of time with what they bring, saying of 
 all, "This hath been and shall be." Saying unto evil, 
 as of good, "This too must end." Leaning not upon 
 God, but on that within us which hath made all gods. 
 MARY. But it is comforting to rest our burdens upon 
 another. To draw courage from a guardian all- 
 powerful. 
 
 ALFRED. And what does he help? Does he thwart 
 the laws of flood, or fire, or dread disease because 
 of goodness or of prayers? The universal mystery 
 we shall never know. Put by this larger man. This 
 God; he hath been made by man. 
 MARY. Thou art my God. 
 
 ALFRED. Nay, not that! Put me so high and I shall 
 fall. I am thy friend. O, Sweetheart, God and 
 Heaven and Hell are in ourselves. In thee I find 
 my Heaven my inspiration and my peace. 
 MARY. My well beloved. Let me kiss thine eyes. 
 ALFRED. Let us be in the world and of the world 
 
 59 
 
and yet above the world. The competition to out- 
 grasp. The cheat of politics, where shallowest trick 
 sters win the day and hollowest skulls ring loudest. 
 The triumph of shrewd robbery. The seers and 
 prophets scorned. The upward progress of mankind 
 so slow you cannot note it move. This breathless 
 racing is the law of life, if only it were free. And 
 all the good of Hope and Charity and Poetry and 
 Love that, too, is from man. There is no founda 
 tion for aught good or ill but man himself. See! 
 The wrens are building. 
 
 MARY. Cunning architects. Above philosophy and 
 satisfied in love. 
 
 ALFRED. And I. As so I would were all the world. 
 All free. Each satisfied to live the life of utter truth 
 and die uncaring. 
 
 MARY. All satisfied with only love. 
 ALFRED. Our love is blending of the mastering, 
 mating passion and of friendship of true souls. The 
 fires of love kept glowing by the wholesome airs of 
 dear companionship. There is a love which binds 
 these pretty wrens. A hot desire. Great Nature s 
 spur mere mating. It is passing. It breeds and 
 there s the end. Great Nature s turn is served. The 
 race will live. But there s a love of minds. A melting 
 of twin souls. An endless, high companionship. Tis 
 folly to bind fast this only breeding love. As well 
 decree eternal mating of these wrens. But when tis 
 intermingled with this ever-growing marriage of the 
 soul, there is a union needs no law to bless. 
 MARY. Oh, who would keep a love that has grown 
 cold, as if it were a chattel thing to be held by law? 
 Of all the follies, laws are worst. Most useless where 
 60 
 
there is not love, most needless where it is. Come, 
 see my hens, which sit so solemnly upon their nests. 
 What stirs in them affection for those smooth, round 
 eggs and keeps them patient to their charge? What 
 is it makes their anxious motherhood to guard and 
 feed their chicks and teaches them to know their own? 
 ALFRED. I ll tell thee by another question. What 
 makes the salmon leave its salty home and press 
 unto the farthest mountain brook, there in the clear 
 and pebbly pools to lay her eggs? What makes the 
 silver-sided, lusty he to follow close and milk his 
 seed upon those eggs? And there, past hope to 
 breathe the sea again, to die? What makes the queen 
 bee soar but once into the skyey depths? What 
 makes the glistening drones pursue her and the 
 eagerest of them all find in the instant of his joy 
 that love is death? Aye, who shall answer what 
 means this dumb, mad race that life shall live, 
 indifferent who may die? 
 
 MARY. Why should we answer, dear? Is it not 
 enough that you and I have found each other out 
 of all the world? That we do live, and that the 
 world is beautiful? And when we die, we shall 
 together sleep, and still the world shall be above us 
 beautiful. And others, too, shall love and set their feet 
 upon our paths and laugh where we have laughed. 
 
 ALFRED. 
 
 Tis good to feel, tho I must soon be merged 
 In quiet Earth, yet shall the blabbing rill 
 From Spring s quick showers go tumbling down 
 the hill 
 
 All sodden with warm rain. From sadness purged, 
 
 61 
 
The lover s heart shall sing, his blood be urged 
 By Springtime s throbbing ecstacy; and still 
 Shall ear rejoice to catch the call and trill 
 Of mating larks or cuckoos mocking dirge. 
 Let shine the willows, silver tipped i the sun, 
 Earth s whisper catching first of all the trees. 
 Let waken all the hives of crawling bees, 
 And crystal drops shine every twig upon. 
 Yea, I am glad still shall the waters run, 
 The love notes swell, tho I know none of these. 
 
 [Enter Harold, a Fool.] 
 MARY. Good morning, Harold. 
 HAROLD. Harold likes the sun. It is warm. The 
 devils all sleep when the flowers are blooming. 
 Good sun. Good sun. 
 ALFRED. How is Harold this day? 
 HAROLD. Harold is glad. He will not chop any 
 more wood. His fingers will not freeze when he 
 milks the cows. Summer is coming. I have a lamb. 
 It is a foolish thing. 
 MARY. But you must love it. 
 HAROLD. What is love? Let me see your hand. 
 Pretty. Pretty. How they sparkle in the sun red 
 and white and green. Are they little flowers? 
 MARY. No, they are stones. 
 
 HAROLD. Flowers are prettier. Tulips are red, 
 and the crocus and hyacinths white and purple. 
 Violets are blue. 
 MARY. But they will die. 
 
 HAROLD. What is to die? See your peach trees. 
 They are all tricked out in pink. That is pretty. 
 ALFRED. And by and by you shall have peaches. 
 HAROLD. I like peaches. Do you know what the 
 62 
 
peaches do? Listen. They chase away the fine, 
 pink, dainty lady-blossoms, and stand big and sweet 
 where the blossoms were. Whyisthat? Ilikepeaches. 
 The sun makes them. I have watched the sun whis 
 pering to the little green balls till they swelled up 
 big and red. So proud. I ll bring my lamb. He is a 
 little fool. Sucking milk and playing in the sun all 
 day. A foolish little fool. [Exit Harold.] 
 
 MARY. Poor young man! 
 
 ALFRED. Indeed, poor boy! Alas! that man, the 
 topmost animal, should ever see the only jewel in 
 his crown so dimmed. And yet it is a cushion to the 
 buffets of the world; a wall which fences out self- 
 consciousness and questioning remorse regret 
 and sorrow for lost joy. It puts away that rack on 
 which the mind will stretch itself of why and where 
 fore. How have we come? Whence shall we go? It 
 gives that mute content these placid cows bear in 
 their eyes. The greatest jewel is a peaceful soul. 
 MARY. For that great jewel would you surrender up 
 the restless, probing mind and wondrous memory? 
 ALFRED. Nay. Mind is power and sense of being. 
 We would not yield it, though we walk in Hell. But 
 I do envy careless birds ; and bees, with their one, 
 all-absorbing purpose. Kine and sheep, and all these 
 lower brethren who take the gift of life and are content. 
 Peace, Peace! Just Peace! That is my cry. I am not 
 young. I am not old. But I am young enough to know 
 how soft thy lips. How deeper than the skies thine 
 eyes. And old enough to know there is no prize in all 
 ambition s press which equals living peace. Ere yet 
 we take that dumb and lasting peace upon her breast. 
 MARY. Art thou at peace? 
 
 63 
 
ALFRED. At perfect peace born of thy love. 
 We ll have as much or little of the world as we do 
 choose. Come, let us prune our orchards, walk 
 among our honey colonies which have awaked at 
 coming summer s touch and gild themselves upon 
 the willows and the alders pollen. Speak with the 
 sparrows in the hawthorne hedge and watch the 
 kindly motherhood of hens and ewes and cows. 
 Receive the adulation of our honest hounds. 
 MARY. And I, O thank the great eternal mystery, 
 am quick within me and shall be mother too. 
 ALFRED. My love! My love! 
 
 SONG OF THE WREN. 
 
 Let us pause a moment in our building while I sit 
 above our secret home and sing the love which is 
 in me. I cannot help but sing. Love! Love! Love! 
 My pretty brown mate, with the gentle eyes, I love 
 thee. Ilovethee. See! See! See! Our home is build 
 ing. Our pretty home so dark so secret. There 
 thou wilt lay and nurse the little white eggs we love 
 so much. There, amid the roses, where the sweet- 
 smelling rose-buds will hang even in our door, and 
 I will sit here above thee and sing to thee, Oh so 
 madly, a psalm of love! 
 
 SCENE II. A BED CHAMBER. 
 
 LFRED. Ah, God! Thy suffering! 
 
 MARY. All and more for thy dear sake. 
 
 Even through the gates of death. 
 ALFRED. Let me wipe thy brow. 
 MARY. Nay. Let me hold thy hands and wring 
 them in my agony. Oh! 
 64 
 
[The cry of a new-born babe is heard.] 
 ALFRED. There is thy reward, dear heart. Once 
 more the world hears the wail of a new-born life. 
 The eternal cry out of the unknown into the un 
 known. A man is born. 
 
 MARY. To my ears it is as if it were the very first 
 on earth. Oh, give him me ! My baby boy ! Lay thy 
 velvet cheek on mine, my sweet. Wilt love thy 
 mother? I have suffered for thee. 
 ALFRED. Tis just begun. And be he faultless, yet 
 he ll never know and never will repay to thee thy 
 years of brooding care, save to another, as thou 
 doest now repay thy mother s debt. But we shall 
 joy in him. O, how I love thee! How this little, 
 living bond doth tie me to thee! Let me comfort 
 thee with kisses. My heart goes out to thee and 
 I am proud. Our boy! My boy! I made him! I! I 
 gave him life! His eyes are violet blue like thine. 
 MARY. O, no! I want him all my copy of thee. 
 See! O! Who hath taught him to seek his mother s 
 breasts and suck? Ah! It is sweet. I thank thee, love. 
 ALFRED. This is our flower. 
 MARY. Our bud. Our precious bud. 
 ALFRED. Now sleep, thou sweet mother. Thou 
 hast wrought a mystery. 
 
 MARY. Stay by me, so whene er I lift mine eyes 
 I ll see thee. 
 ALFRED. Rest! 
 
 65 
 
SCENE III. A MEADOW. A BROOK, FRINGED 
 WITH WILLOWS. 
 
 Edgar, first-born son of Mary and Alfred. Harold. 
 
 DGAR. You always catch the most, Harold. 
 HAROLD. Harold knows the fish. He coaxes 
 them. He wishes them upon thehookand they 
 
 come. They are pretty red freckles and black. So 
 slim and so quick. How they jump upon the line. But 
 Harold holds them, and presently they wink at him 
 with their gills once, twice, and are still. 
 EDGAR. Why do they die so soon out of water? 
 HAROLD. Harold doesn t know. I saw a man once 
 taken from the mill pond. He was white and still. 
 He splashed and jumped like the trout for a minute, 
 and when he was taken from the water they put 
 him in a hole. I was glad. He used to beat me. 
 EDGAR. No one beats you now. 
 HAROLD. No! Harold is too strong. 
 EDGAR. You said you would show me how to 
 trap rabbits. 
 
 HAROLD. Hush! They are devils! They hear 
 everything. Their ears are wagging this way, that 
 way. They ll hear us now and tell their master. 
 Come close. Wait till the oak leaves fall. I ll show 
 you then. 
 
 EDGAR. My mother says there are no devils 
 except men. 
 
 HAROLD. Hush! Have you never seen faces look 
 ing from the trunks of old oaks and beeches? Has 
 your mother seen the rabbit listening at night under 
 the window and talking to the moon? Come closer. 
 I saw the devil once. He was all black. He changed 
 66 
 
into a crow and flew up to the moon, laughing and 
 screaming. I ve had women wave to me, and when 
 I came they changed to bushes, or I heard them 
 stealing off, and voices everywhere by the brook 
 and in the forest, saying to me, "Come! Come! 
 Come! All will be beautiful." But I can never find 
 them. They are like the air. Is that not devils? 
 EDGAR. It is growing dark. Let us go home. 
 HAROLD. Ah! Ha! The dark. Then is their time. 
 They see like cats. I ve seen their shining eyes. 
 Cats are devils too. 
 
 EDGAR. Give me your hand, Harold. Let us go 
 home. [Enter Alfred and Mary.] 
 
 MARY. You wicked children. We are looking for 
 you. 
 
 HAROLD. Harold is not wicked. 
 MARY. No, no, good Harold. You are very good. 
 And now you shall come home and have hot bread 
 and cream and honey. 
 
 HAROLD. Hot bread and cream and honey. Oh, 
 that is good. See what a lot of fish. 
 MARY. Poorprettylings. Your darting motion gone. 
 Your bright eyes glazed. All still. 
 ALFRED. And so in time must we and all. 
 HAROLD. Not Harold. I never shall be still. 
 They ll never put me in a hole. I m big and strong 
 now. Stronger than all. I will not let them. 
 MARY. O blessed Hope and Faith ! Ye jewels of the 
 simple mind. Go home, Harold and Edgar. We shall 
 follow. 
 
 ALFRED. Is not truth always good? 
 MARY. Yes, truth is the one eternal goal. Nothing 
 can be better. Nothing must obscure it. 
 
 67 
 
ALFRED. If Hope and Faith be not true, but airy 
 visions born of dread, then put them by and learn 
 a newer strength born of the equal justice of eternal 
 laws. 
 
 MARY. But what if Hope and Faith be true? 
 ALFRED. If true, they ll be all true. Truth is a 
 perfect crystal without flaw. Hark to that cat-bird 
 minstrelsing from out the hedge his joy to live. 
 That is the truth. 
 
 MARY. The stars are stealing into place. They are 
 the truth. 
 
 ALFRED. And to the stars what is man or bird? 
 Oh, warbler from the dusk, once more from your 
 dark privacy you shout your psalm and prayer! 
 As so shall mine be; glad of my days and nights, 
 content to win my living from earth s lips, content 
 to close my eyes unfretful of the mystery which 
 heeds me not. I too have fished, and in the whis 
 pering days of June, beside the sweet, discoursing 
 brook, I ve watched the shadows of the May-flies 
 dance. Than those frail ghosts, we, in the make-up 
 of the worlds, are less. Than that brief moment life 
 and love are briefer. 
 
 MARY. Say not love is brief. How have we loved 
 in growing loveliness these slow-paced years. It 
 hath been long, and Fate, I thank thee, that it hath 
 been so. And I do love to dream that love shall not 
 end, but we, though but as shadows once again, 
 shall meet and kiss. 
 
 ALFRED. Sweet dream. Sweet dreamer. Man dies: 
 his dreams do live. The strongest bones must rot; 
 the burliest oak must fall. There is no edifice today 
 but trees shall grow in its halls. The rock-ribbed 
 68 
 
mountains of the earth are slowly melting to the 
 sea. But those fictions which men rapturously have 
 coined from air, they are immortal. Flesh shall die, 
 but thought shall live. 
 
 MARY. You mean that we shall die, but dreams 
 of happy love and the story of our loving dream 
 shall live? 
 
 ALFRED. Aye! Year after year, as to the same 
 small den beneath our roof the wrens return. As 
 wake the bees as soon as spring whispers at the 
 hive. As with an upward passion, tender buds do 
 shoot and ferns uncurl. As our brown fields turn 
 sheets of green, or hens do cluck, or ewes do bleat, 
 or thunder-throated bulls do paw the earth. As sure 
 as love makes over all the world each singing year 
 by year, so shall our dream of love be heard by 
 listening, lover hearts. 
 
 MARY. I dread to die. I want to live with you a 
 dreamful, deathless life in some fair valley as the 
 poets feigned. 
 
 ALFRED. Another dream! The order of the world 
 is end, and death is best. But who would look upon 
 a skull who might gaze into thy moist and speaking 
 eyes? I too crave that valley of the heart s desire, 
 where all is peace and endless love. But flowers 
 must fade that fresher ones may bloom. And we 
 must live in our children they in theirs. That is 
 our immortality. 
 
 MARY. Our children! They seem to sit within my 
 heart as if when they were born they left their 
 image there. How sweet, though suffering; cruel 
 sweet the night that Edgar was born. Dost thou 
 love me now as then? 
 
 69 
 
ALFRED. More! Love too must fade, or grow and 
 put forth limbs. Thou hast been to my feeding love 
 a pasture growing every fragrant herb. Unto my 
 listening soul an organ, playing all notes, all tunes. 
 The high ecstatic peal the low and sobbing dirge. 
 The storm of passion and the psalm of peace. Thou 
 hast been many women unto me. I am as other 
 men, and have naturally a manifold and changeful 
 love, but thou hast kept me single unto thee because 
 in thee I found at Life s feast an every taste I craved. 
 I love thee most tonight. 
 MARY. The stars are listening. 
 ALFRED. And there a night- jar croaks. 
 MARY. There is no ill omen to my happy heart. 
 ALFRED. Tomorrow we will note our coming 
 harvest, and when the day s heat is past you shall 
 sing to me underneath the old fig tree. 
 MARY. Or we will give a picnic in the oak grove 
 near the spring. 
 
 ALFRED. The dogs are barking. 
 MARY. It is a welcome from the outer dark unto 
 the shelter of our home. 
 
 SCENE IV. MORNING. A GARDEN AND OR 
 CHARD, WALLED IN BY WILD-ROSE HEDGE 
 AND ROWS OF POPLARS. 
 
 IATILDA. Edgar! Edgar! 
 EDGAR. What is it? 
 
 MATILDA. Where are you? [Enter Harold] 
 HAROLD. There is Edgar in yon fig tree. 
 MATILDA. Edgar, what are you doing? 
 EDGAR. Gathering figs for father s breakfast. They 
 70 
 
are now cool from the night. And these at the top 
 he likes best. 
 
 MATILDA. I have roses here for mother. We are 
 going to have a picnic today in the oak grove. 
 HAROLD. Good! Harold will have cake and cream. 
 EDGAR. Sister, take these figs into the house. Tell 
 father it was I who picked them. [Exit Matilda] 
 Harold, Wolf and Beauty killed a buck this morn 
 ing. I heard them half the night. You must not let 
 them out. 
 
 HAROLD. The moon was very bright. They asked 
 me to. I passed their kennel and they begged me. 
 Come to the pond. I set a net last night. 
 EDGAR. No. I must go bring in the buck. He lies 
 in the canyon field, in the alfalfa near the water 
 wheel. You must not loose the dogs again. 
 [Exeunt Edgar and Harold. Enter Alfred and Mary] 
 ALFRED. Sweetheart, see those distant peaks 
 which wall our valley in. Blue with the fir forest 
 at their top and green in rolling softness lower down. 
 There next the sky lies Peace amid the quiet of 
 the mountain-top: and here, too, I find peace. Here 
 in my home. If Care be alive, he is hid beyond our 
 poplar rampart and our outer wild-rose hedge. 
 MARY. This is our kingdom. 
 
 ALFRED. What is this fever which leads men to 
 jail themselves between four walls? To fret the city 
 with their restless feet? What can riches buy more 
 than enough? Happiness is from the mind. It is not 
 purchaseable. Can riches buy a sweeter morn 
 dew in the air and freshness on our brow? Can 
 riches buy that oriole s song, or quail s clear note, 
 or give us more than plenteously our flocks and 
 
 71 
 
fields ungrudging yield? Power! Vain bubble! 
 What citizens are half so loyal as these noisy dogs? 
 I abhor power. It never hath been used, but it hath 
 been abused. Power and abuse of power are one 
 inseparable! Nay, give it to a god, and it will make 
 him half a devil. I have what power I crave. The 
 power of love. Our children and our servitors, my 
 friends. Still does a part govern the mass. Still comes 
 misery because the good will enforce their goodness, 
 nor leave to each his judgment free. I would not 
 change this orchard s peace, the music of the birds 
 and brooks; the sense of kindliness in Mother 
 Earth, for any tyranny of power. 
 MARY. Power could not make thee bad. 
 ALFRED. Assuredly it would. If not in heart, yet 
 tyrranous in act, believing that the act was best. 
 Yet naught that s good is half so good as that each 
 for himself may choose. 
 
 MARY. Here are my colonies, where love is power 
 and willing working is the order. Gentle bees! 
 ALFRED. Their village of white houses underneath 
 the apple trees hums with its ordered industry. How 
 lulling is the sound. 
 
 MARY. And who would say to see one tiny voy 
 ager creeping to her cells that such as she from 
 dainty cups of apple blossoms, peach and pear, 
 from figs and grapes and purple alfalfa fields, could 
 store me twenty tons of nectar ere the winter seals 
 them down. Our pigeons flock upon the barns. 
 ALFRED. And far unto the dusty road our apple 
 trees, in row on row, bow heavy with their freight. 
 We hear the clack of wagons and the laughter of 
 the pickers. 
 
 72 
 
SONG OF THE APPLE PICKER. 
 
 Happy our lot under blue skies, 
 
 Under the apple boughs, picking the apples. 
 
 Golden and red; perfumed and sweet; 
 
 Fruit of the sun; fruit of the earth. 
 
 Gift of our Mother Earth, kindly and fruitful. 
 
 Cool leaves about us, branches enfold us. 
 
 Like robins, those pilferers, we 
 
 hide in the branches. 
 
 Happy our lot under blue skies; 
 
 Gay is our toil with laughter and mirth. 
 
 Light are our hearts with jokes and with singing, 
 
 Soft rustle the branches we pluck of their gold. 
 
 Soft are the lips of the maidens we love, 
 
 Soft is the moon when our labors are over. 
 
 Pleasant the days with bustle and song. 
 
 Pleasant the quiet of rose-colored eve. 
 
 Pleasant the night with cool, fragrant slumber. 
 
 Pleasant the night with music and dancing. 
 
 The moon who hath lighted us goes to her bed. 
 
 The dawn paints the East. 
 
 The stars all grow pale. 
 
 The ghost winged owl flits o er our pathway. 
 
 The scent of the apples, the clover, the leaves, 
 
 The scent of the grass, of mint and of earth, 
 
 Steals abroad on the dew and the 
 
 freshness of morning. 
 
 Soft are the lips of the maidens we love. 
 
 MARY. Let us sit in the shade of this willow, where 
 the water in the irrigation ditch murmers to the 
 earth gently like a lover, saying, I will woo thee; I 
 will make thee fertile. Sweet is the breeze, bearing 
 
 73 
 
smell of the alfalfa and of the dry strawberry beds, 
 smell of the vines and the grapes, the peaches and 
 the peach leaves. 
 
 ALFRED. The breeze is soothing. The hum of 
 bees is soothing. Bees and wasps and flies and the 
 gilded yellow-jackets hum in the air and swarm 
 upon the juicy plums and peaches which lie scat 
 tered on the ground. The smell of the ripe apples is 
 sweet as roses. 
 
 MARY. Soothing is the old water-wheel, cool and 
 slippery and dripping, turning slowly in its labor 
 daily and nightly; steadily, with kindly persistence 
 to refresh the earth; steadily with gentle drip and 
 murmur. 
 
 ALFRED. Ceaselessly, steadily as it pours into the 
 trough and into the small furrows its bright blessing, 
 so hast thou poured thy life-giving love into my chan 
 nels and my desert places blossom and bear fruit. 
 MARY. As from the sun the apple leaves eagerly 
 draw strength for fragrant blossoms and the golden 
 fruit, so from thy companionship have I drunk 
 strength. Thou art my lover dear, but most my 
 friend. 
 
 ALFRED. Aye! that is best. Sweetheart, is not this 
 a beauteous world? The earth so bountiful to give 
 us bread and wine, luscious fruits and winter store 
 of apples and of nuts ; wealth for simple needs ; books 
 within ourselves and pictures in the skies. To our 
 strong-limbed children, ruddy-cheeked, we ll leave 
 an heritage of lustihood and peaceful minds. Teach 
 them to live within themselves; to cease to wish to 
 govern others. To know the world is beautiful. 
 MARY. Alas! Its only darker spots are made by men. 
 74 
 
ALFRED. Teach them to hate the tax that s taken 
 from another s sweat. To cease to bend men s acts 
 or thoughts by tyranny of vain majorities. To leave 
 the Earth s bare and vacant bosom free to those 
 who first shall hug and suck her. Not by a foolish, 
 kingly right to fence her children out; neither using 
 nor suffering to be used. To soar toward Freedom. 
 O! bright, irresistible God not Liberty, but Free 
 dom! I see the day when men shall touch thy 
 garment s hem. Not one shall be his brother s keeper. 
 All shall be free man and woman mind and 
 body. Each by his strength to rise, or weakness, 
 fall. Then shall men look upon this present as gods 
 who gaze into a dark valley from the peaks of light. 
 There in the darkness far below creatures grope 
 about and wailings rise. 
 
 MARY. And we will teach our children how 
 precious is an amethyst day like this. How priceless 
 is a sparrow s song. How worthless is the struggle 
 and the fret which ends but in a grave. That poesy 
 is all the gold there is. 
 
 ALFRED. And happiness is but to know the beauty 
 of the world. 
 
 MARY. To live aright the sole ambition. 
 ALFRED. And righteousness is but to live the truth. 
 Be free and let be free. Helping, not ruling! Giving, 
 not taking! To garner thought, not gold. To die 
 content, and have some eyes grow wet. A memory 
 of us kept that s sweet as lavender and giving to the 
 living strength like wine. Peace in life. Content in 
 death. And Justice ever. This is the sum. 
 
 [Enter Father Dominic] 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Pax vobiscum. 
 
 75 
 
ALFRED. Et tecum pax. 
 
 MARY. Good Father Dominic, how kind! You 
 bring your violin. We shall have revelry of music 
 and of song. 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Yes. I have leave to stay 
 two days. 
 
 ALFRED. Thou naughty school-boy! Leavetostay! 
 And there thy monastery shines upon the hill a rifle 
 shot away. 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. It is necessary discipline, my 
 children. Life is discipline. 
 
 MARY. True! True! Life s ripened fruit is a chas 
 tened soul. 
 
 ALFRED. The discipline which lends a fibre to the 
 soul is self-combat. 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Our poor monastic laws, at 
 which you smile, are but the simple rules which 
 sailors bear for the good of all. But it is truly as 
 you say, enforced restraint is worthless as a with 
 ered leaf. True discipline is the struggle up to God. 
 ALFRED. What is God, Father? 
 FATHER DOMINIC. God is a name. Man s deep 
 yearning toward the all-inscrutable. Unto the simple 
 it is a father tender, wise, hearing his children s 
 cries. To me and ye God is the vast, unsounded 
 mystery; but still all- wise, all-merciful. 
 ALFRED. God is man seeing himself in a mirror 
 and knowing not his image. I marvel that you, a 
 churchman, dare to look beyond the Hebrew God. 
 MARY. Nay, marvel not at that; but marvel if our 
 Father Dominic were aught but wise and good. 
 FATHER DOMINIC. The mission of the Church 
 is help. The God she offers is as each hath sight to see : 
 76 
 
Allah, Jehovah, or the Universal Law, but always 
 the all-wise; the compassionate, the all -merciful. 
 ALFRED. Aye, this blind and heartless Universal 
 Law is yet all- wise, all-merciful, compassionate. 
 MARY. And Christ? Was he the Son of God? 
 FATHER DOMINIC. And was he not? That gentle 
 one? And are we not all sons of God? 
 ALFRED. A Gautama, Mohammed, Socrates? 
 FATHER DOMINIC. All who have taught to ren 
 der good for ill, to give back love for hate to 
 leave men free, are sons of God. 
 MARY. The sovereignest sons of man are sons of 
 God. Such creed none could refuse. 
 FATHER DOMINIC. The Church refuseth none. 
 She is very patient. 
 
 ALFRED. Patience is life s lesson too, good friend! 
 You learn it as the prisoner doth. You cannot choose. 
 FATHER DOMINIC. No. If I be prisoner tis by 
 my will. We learn to serve, and serving learn he is 
 not greatest who seems to rule. We learn the servant 
 and the master are but friends. That from all service 
 must be taken the haughty stain which pride hath 
 blacked it with. We learn that labor is the mother 
 of all good, and all labor is good. In labor there are 
 no degrees as in the ribbons of a puppet-made no 
 bility. We learn all men are brethren, all virtue 
 justice, all religion kindness. 
 
 MARY. Dear friend, thou art a godly, that s a 
 goodly, man. I know the calm thy harbor gives thee 
 in the tumult of this worldly sea. I know the patient 
 service of a chastened heart. 
 
 ALFRED. Dear friend. You find peace there I 
 here. Here in the world. Its turmoil changed to 
 
 77 
 
hum of bees and chatter of the saucy jays. Here 
 mid the blooms of spring and gold of autumn, 
 bartering my orchard s gold into the harder stuff 
 from stony-hearted cities. Here mid the laughter 
 of young men and women gathering earth s fruits. 
 Here with her who is my chosen friend and mother 
 of new generations ; young wrestlers we are, coaching 
 for the strifeful sands. Teaching them that soft and 
 slender, youthful arms must hardened be for blows, 
 but blows for justice and for freedom, the One and 
 Indivisible. To live as we will and let men live as 
 they will. To claim no more than we can use. To 
 sleep the sleep which crystal skies pour on the just. 
 Thou there ; I here. I in my narrow cell, half free, 
 thou in thy narrower, less free. Thou there amid 
 the golden dusk; I here, my hand within the hands 
 of love, soothed by thy vesper bells, at peace. Some 
 what I envy thee thy utter peace of soul. 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Ah, God! 
 MARY. Laughter rises from the packing house. Is 
 it not a cage of sparrows, finches, parrakeets. Hear 
 that burst of laughter borne to us on the breeze. 
 Come, let us go. 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Ah, youth! Thou time of love 
 and laughter! 
 
 ALFRED. Tut! Tut! Thou holy man. What hast 
 thou to do with love? 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. What insect hath not to do 
 with love O, passion wonderful! 
 MARY. All love is holy. 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Aye, all. There is no such 
 thing as unholy love. 
 MARY. Come! 
 78 
 
ALFRED. A pitcher of wine first, in the arbor. The 
 clusters above us and the juice before us. 
 MARY. Yes, and you are in time for a picnic. 
 Would you condescend from symphonies and 
 sonatas to play dances for the youth? 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Is it condescension to give 
 happiness? Happiness is life s nectar. Blessed is he 
 who lifts the cup to another s lips even for a mo 
 ment. Kindness is more precious than jewels. Ah, 
 youth; blessed time of love and laughter. 
 
 SCENE V. THE PACKING HOUSE. 
 
 RIS. Kate is in love; no more she sings; no 
 
 more we hear her laughter. 
 
 KATE. Iris is in love. Ever she laughs and 
 she chatters. 
 
 ROSE. Kate, of the straight black brows, hath John 
 forsook thee? 
 
 NELL. Patience, Kate; soon he ll come back from 
 the city. 
 
 KATE. Patience, Nell, maybe he will bring thee a 
 ribbon. 
 
 IRIS. I ll have a duke, at least, for my true sweet 
 heart. Here in this box I ve packed this big red 
 apple. On its wrapper I have written, "This is 
 the heart of Iris." He will discover this far off in 
 London. 
 
 KATE. I now can see the duke down in the cellar 
 unpacking apples, far off in London. Here, Iris, put 
 this in. Say, "This box was packed by slim-throated 
 Iris." 
 NELL. Star-gazing Iris. 
 
 79 
 
ROSE, White-handed Iris. With pink finger-tips as 
 
 if picking strawberries. 
 
 KATE. Sunny-haired Iris. 
 
 IRIS. Flint-hearted Iris. (Laughter.) I will load this 
 
 box with precious freight. Here I will pack May, 
 
 with the trees a-bloom, bees in the blossoms. 
 
 KATE. And I give thee April with soft, weeping 
 
 skies. 
 
 IRIS. Thou art melancholy. 
 
 KATE. Nay. Rain is happiness and life. It makes 
 
 the pink buds start, the young fruit swell. 
 
 NELL. I give thee hot summer, with the creak of 
 
 the irrigating wheel and murmur of water murmur 
 
 of the leaves of the orchard. 
 
 IRIS. And I this autumn season with chastened heat 
 
 and smell of dying leaves and fragrance of apples. 
 
 KATE. All this, for a duke in smoky, stony London. 
 
 WILL. Iris, pack in a kiss; twill sweeter be and 
 
 redder than the apples. 
 
 IRIS. There! A kiss. It is done. 
 
 WILL. Fast fly your nimble hands; fast as soft 
 
 shuttles and the continuous rustle of the paper 
 
 wrappers is like leaves in a south wind; but faster 
 
 still fly your tongues, ruddy-cheeked chatterers. 
 
 KATE. Thou art our master here. Thou art our 
 
 foreman. But at the set of sun, down in the almond 
 
 grove, Rose and a man I know. Who there is master? 
 
 (Laughter.) 
 
 WILL. Kate, of the flashing smile, you grow too 
 
 saucy. Sing to us, Kate. Put off melancholy. 
 
 80 
 
SONG. 
 
 John s eyes are dark, his teeth are white, 
 All curly is his chestnut hair. 
 He sings the songs of Love s delight, 
 And after him the maidens stare. 
 
 Laughing he speaks, 
 
 With glowing cheeks, 
 Kitty, will you marry me? 
 Kitty, Kitty, O so pretty, 
 Will you marry me? 
 
 Dick s sire is old, with store of gold 
 The grumbling water turns his mill, 
 And be it bought or be it sold, 
 Shrewd Richard is the gainer still. 
 
 Boldly he said, 
 
 It is a trade, 
 
 Kitty, will you marry me? 
 In the city we ll live, Kitty, 
 If you ll marry me. 
 
 Will s heart is true his arm is stout, 
 His eyes are grave and wise; 
 The roses twine his porch about, 
 His orchard smiling lies. 
 
 Under his breath, 
 
 Softly he saith, 
 Kitty, will you marry me? 
 Kitty, Kitty! Oh, have pity! 
 Will you marry me? 
 
 ALL. Good! Good! Kate s voice is coming back 
 
 81 
 
as the meadow-larks do in the autumn. 
 IRIS. What did Kitty say? 
 
 KATE (Sings). 
 
 To quiet marsh the blackbird flies, 
 On bare rocks coos the dove; 
 O I will dwell where my love lies! 
 I ll mate with my true love. 
 
 IRIS. Which did she take? 
 NELL. Yes, which? 
 
 KATE. Choose for yourselves. She took the true 
 heart and snug home, either without other is folly 
 and a thorny bed. 
 
 ROSE. Here comes Kate s steadfast beau, half 
 witted Harold. [Enter Harold] 
 HAROLD. Harold has a bird for Kate. 
 WILL. A cock quail. 
 
 KATE. Oh, the pretty! His little head crested. See 
 how bright his eyes, restless and frightened. Let 
 him go, Harold. 
 
 HAROLD. Harold trapped him for Kate. 
 KATE. Then give him me. I will not keep him. 
 Ah ! How his heart beats ! There, take thy freedom. 
 Fly to the mountain-side, to the thick covert. Fly 
 to thy waiting mate and brood so timid. Once more 
 together. Run down the dusty road, plunge in the 
 wild rose; whirr o er the gentle brook and o er the 
 orchard. I ll hear thy whistle, shrill, hailing the 
 morning. Go to thy freedom! 
 HAROLD. Harold caught him for thee. 
 KATE. Good Harold. Good Harold. Here is some 
 candy. 
 
 82 
 
HAROLD. You must all come to a picnic now in 
 
 the oak grove. 
 
 WILL. Tut! Tut! First finish your boxes. Now fast 
 
 your hands do fly faster than humming birds. 
 
 IRIS. There sounds the horn, calling to pleasure. 
 
 NELL. Music and dancing. 
 
 ROSE. Under the oak trees. 
 
 KATE. Soft breezes whispering. 
 
 IRIS. Stars peeping downward. 
 
 WILL. Away! Away! [Enter Father Dominic] 
 
 ALL. Oh, Father Dominic. Good Father Dominic. 
 
 Come to our dancing. Play us some music. 
 
 FATHER DOMINIC. Gladly and merrily. Ah, 
 
 youth! Thou blessed time of love and laughter. 
 
 SCENE VI. A HILLSIDE ARBOR: IN IT STONE 
 SEATS AND A SQUARE STONE TABLE. 
 
 ARY. Here lies Father Dominic s violin; 
 
 mute, mute. "Where is the hand which gave 
 
 it soul? 
 
 ALFRED. And there beneath the almond trees, 
 inside the monastery walls, lies Father Dominic 
 mute, mute. But another shall wake the violin to 
 newer life; and again the almond trees shall bloom 
 and ever upon earth shall come Father Dominic 
 souls of gentleness, of goodness and of strength, 
 teaching kindness and pity. The religion of living 
 and letting live. [Enter Edgar and Matilda] 
 
 MARY. My children. We will perform rites in 
 memory of our friend. Edgar, there is the violin he 
 taught thee to draw sobs from. 
 ALFRED. And laughter. 
 
 83 
 
MARY. Matilda, he found the music of thy voice. 
 Here we will remember him. 
 
 ALFRED. Let our bodies be burned and the ashes 
 scattered to the winds. Memory is the only monu 
 ment. Give me not fame or sculptured tomb. Let 
 me be buried in the hearts I ve loved. Let each but 
 say of me, "He was kind. He gave me strength. He 
 dropped upon my heart some dew of happiness. 
 His faults were faults of gentleness and pity, but he 
 was iron for the right." Let such words be my 
 epitaph. I want no funeral urns save loving hearts. 
 I only ask that some shall say, "I loved him." 
 [Matilda chanting. Edgar playing on the violin and 
 occasionally joining the chant.] 
 
 Sing, sing, ye little birds, which come in Spring, 
 When buds are opening and airs blow warm. 
 Sing, sing, ye little birds, which in leafy June 
 Do feed your young amid the sheltering leaves. 
 Sing, wrens, with tiny bills and ruffled throats, 
 Sing, robins, twitter, swallows, from your dens. 
 Sing, finches, in the cedar trees and thickets green, 
 Whistle, ye blackbirds, from the fir tree s 
 swaying top. 
 
 Loud and clear pipe joy, ye speckled larks. 
 He is at rest. 
 
 Warble your liquid strain in the cold deeps 
 of the forest, 
 O, ye thrushes, 
 
 Thrushes with spotted breasts and timid eyes. 
 Ye speckled sparrows, all ye feathered choir, 
 Warble your clear and bubbling song. 
 84 
 
Shy water ousels which plunge with ecstacy into 
 the foamy brook, 
 
 And haunt the silent shady shallows, 
 And nest behind the old mill s dripping veil. 
 "Whistle, ye quail, in the golden wheat-fields, 
 And from the hedge-rows, chirp, ye sparrows. 
 Coo, ye doves, upon the rocky hillside, 
 Mourn, ye ghostly owls, unto the moon. 
 He is at rest. 
 
 Yet mourn not, for he mourned not; 
 
 Be ye glad of living, as he was glad, 
 
 And mourn not for the dead for that they are dead. 
 
 He is at rest, but life and love live on. 
 
 Come, ye lovers, at evening where he sleeps. 
 
 Be not sorrowful. Be glad. Let the boughs of the 
 
 Almond tree shelter ye. 
 
 Let the leaves kiss your cheeks. 
 
 Here, as you sit silent with love, he sits with you. 
 
 Hark to the twitter and gentle fluting of the 
 
 song sparrows; 
 
 Hark to the evening prayer of the earth and 
 
 the trees and the sky. 
 
 He is at rest. 
 
 Be ye glad, all ye living things. Glad for life 
 
 and glad for death. 
 
 Glad of the wintry storms, which wrestle with the 
 
 great oaks, so they toss in agony; 
 
 Glad of the rains which give drink to earth; 
 
 Glad of the wild roar of the thunder and the 
 
 down-pouring flood, 
 
 The swaying and tossing and lashing of the 
 
 trees in the tempest, 
 
 85 
 
The breath of evening and the soft-footed breezes 
 of the summer night; 
 The cool and quiet forest aisles, 
 Mild and gentle rains which creep 
 down the hillside, 
 
 Whispering to the hidden things as they go. 
 Glad of the flowers which spread 
 their carpet on the hills, 
 And the grass which paints the valleys, 
 And the leaves which clothe the forests; 
 Glad of Frolic spring which dances over 
 the earth with flowery footsteps; 
 Glad of the orchards which burst into beauty 
 And deck the earth as a bride, 
 "Which invite their lovers, the bees, 
 with lulling hum of gauzy wings; 
 Glad of the springtime air which drifts 
 in seas of fragrance. 
 Quarrel, ye noisy, swollen brooks; 
 "Warble, ye summer rivers, over your pebbles; 
 Murmur, ye tranquil irrigation streams. 
 He is at rest. 
 
 Hang heavy, ye plum trees, purple and heavy; 
 Heavy, ye pear trees, drooping and golden; 
 Heavy, ye peach trees, velvet and fragrant, 
 Almond and fig trees and vines heavy with clusters, 
 Yellow-leaved vines, with clusters purple and ruby, 
 Goblets of wine for marrying and christening. 
 O, wise Mother Earth. Oh, fields, fat and fruitful; 
 Oh, kind Mother Earth. Oh, forest and rivers. 
 Oh, Beautiful Earth, silent and patient. 
 
 He is at rest. 
 86 
 
Blow out, ye wintry storms, and swell your cheeks, 
 
 Strip all the earth to nakedness. 
 
 Peal, organ of the riven sky and of the cataract. 
 
 Wail, O melancholy harp among the 
 
 leafless fingers of the trees. 
 
 Die, ye butterflies, ye grasshoppers, 
 
 Your chirp is stilled. The earth is dead. 
 
 Sleep, ye wise and golden bees. 
 
 But yet again the buds shall swell, 
 
 The green shall leap upon the earth, 
 
 The air shall thrill with songs of birds, 
 
 The peach tree shall blush pink, 
 
 The wrens shall come again. 
 
 Again the blossoms sweet shall hum 
 
 with honey labor of the bees, 
 
 Forever he shall rest. 
 
 ALFRED. Oh, Life eternal. 
 
 MARY. Oh, Love eternal. 
 
 ALFRED. Blessed are we in life and love and 
 
 peace. 
 
 MARY. Blessed is Life. 
 
 ALFRED. Blessed is Death. 
 
 EDGAR and MATILDA (chanting). He is at rest. 
 
 He is at rest. Peace and forever. Let him rest. 
 
 ALFRED. Hark to the vesper bell. 
 
 MARY. The wren warbles his evening prayer. 
 
 SONG OF THE WREN. 
 
 I love thee. I love thee. O, little brown mate! I love 
 thee so that my heart swells into my throat. Year 
 after year I and my fathers have reared their brood 
 here under the roof peak. Here, where the roses 
 
 87 
 
scramble and toss their heads. Here you and I 
 have raised our little ones from the beautiful, little, 
 delicate eggs, so dear. Here I have sung to thee in the 
 dewy mornings and in the purple evenings. Here 
 where the roses nodded to me. The roses are gone. 
 Come, let us fly away to the Southland, to the land 
 of the sun ever fair. We and our children. Come! 
 Come! Come! We all together. Come close to me, 
 my little brown mate. I am singing to thee. I love 
 thee. I love thee. In the springtime, when the flower- 
 embroiderers are abroad and the breath of the night 
 is full of spice in the springtime we shall return 
 to the nest of our love. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD PART 
 
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