UC-NRLF $B 3DM M3E NG OF -UMnrrT 11 HISH 11 1 IS li 11 11 1 If II IHSISH HfH 1 1 n WIIhUm siiii:-' :: 111 iillslli ■ '■'■■'' if liif v iiii'ti r ill iHfiiiffi! HR AU/IAHYS BOOK FYND KING OF THE AIR and other poems by ELIZABETH CHANDLEE FORMAN BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS Copyright, 1919, by Elizabeth Chandlee Formaw All Rights Reserved The Three Lads appeared in the London Nation, Missing in The Forum, Cadorna's Retreat in New York Times, Sea of Pearl in Bryn Mawr Alumnce Quarterly, and To William L. Price, Architect in Philadelphia Public Ledger. They are here reproduced through the courtesy of these publishers. Made in the United States of America The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A. THIS LITTLE BOOK I OWE IN GRATITUDE TO THE INSPIRATION OF TWO WHO LOVED TRUTH AND CHERISHED BEAUTY: MY PARENTS DR. HENRY CHANDLEE ANNA BETTERTON CHANDLEE OF BALTIMORE, MARYLAND 4701, CONTENTS POEMS OF THE GREAT WAR PAGE King of the Air 9 The Three Lads 11 Missing 12 Marching 13 Song: " Soft Wind, Sweet Wind " . . 15 The Battalion of Death 16 / Cari Morti 18 " When the Peace-Bells Ring " . . 20 Cadorna's Retreat 21 Mother and Child 22 The Doves of Venice 24 In Dover Town . 26 Monchy — Cambrai — St. Quentin — La Fere 28 Butterfly 29 Field Grey 30 Gates of Amiens 32 Victors! 34 The Turn of the Tide 36 Crossing 38 The Blue Star and the Gold .... 39 5 Contents PAGE His Last Flight 40 The Bells of Victory 42 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS Song of the Mermaids and Mermen . . 47 A Child's Fancy 48 Sea of Pearl 49 Joy . . 51 Indian Boat-Song 52 Song: "The Sun is Striding Through the Sky "... 53 The Old Wind 54 11 Not Death That Most Men Dread I Fear " 56 The Voice in the Fog 57 " Out of the Years and the Rain " . .59 Calm 60 To William L. Price, Architect . . .61 Morning 63 Firelight 64 In Camp 65 Moonlight 66 Song: " Thou Art the Virile Mountain Stream" 68 The Little Grey Lane 69 Sonnet 7° One Boy Less 71 6 Contents PAGE The Ships of Yesterday 72 Song: " My Love is Dear to Me " . . 74 The River 75 To Henry 76 " When the Roses Are Dead " . . . .78 PROSE The Old Vase 81 The Child in the Garden 82 A Soliloquy 85 A Storm 87 A Masked Ball 88 My Childhood 90 A Farm 91 A Memory 93 Death in the House 95 The Message of a Day 97 The Wolf (A Christmas Tale) . . . 100 The Moor-Birds 105 France to the Rescue (A True Story of the Sea) 112 POEMS OF THE GREAT WAR KING OF THE AIR To Lieutenant Horace B. Forman 3rd, \ U. S. Aviation Service, A.E.F., France/ Up and away, from behind those headlands green, He sails his ship in the sky! Steady and keen and true, with majestic mien He sweeps through reaches high. Now he floats on wide, still wings, now dips, And drops like a falling star, Only to soar again to the highest tips Of mountain peaks afar. King of the air is he — and his royal train The crimson clouds of dawn. For an instant he's lost in a purple fringe of rain, Into a gold mist gone. His bright cloud-hosts salute him with fire and thunder As they march in review through the sky, So that the humble earth-folk tremble and wonder At the clamor and glory on high. The winds are his trumpeters, sounding over the seas Their clarions loud and clear. At his crossing, the great waves chant wild har- monies For his listening soul to hear. He shames the birds of the land in daring and grace, And the swift-winged gulls of the sea. In splendid heights he rides with the sun face to face. A strong, bold king is he! 9 King of the Air King of the air? — Nay, king of the world is he! Unbound by the narrow land He swings through broad, free spaces. The tyran- nous sea Holds not with her iron hand. And his joy is greater than anything under the skies Felt since life began — For he joins to the passionate heart of the bird that flies, The thinking soul of a man. Siasconset, Mass., 5 August, 1018. IO THE THREE LADS Down the road rides a German lad, Into the distance grey. Straight towards the north as a bullet flies, The dusky north with its cold sad skies ; But the song that he sings is merry and glad, For he's off to the war and away. " Then hey! for our righteous king! " (he cries) " And the good old God in his good old skies ! And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes — For I'm off to the war and away! " Down the road rides a Russian lad, Into the distance grey. Out towards the glare of the steppes he spurs, And he hears the wolves in the southern firs; But the song that he sings is blithe and glad, For he's off to the war and away. 11 Then hey! for our noble tzar! " (he cries) " And liberty that never dies ! And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes — For I'm off to the war and away! " Down the road rides an English lad, Into the distance grey. Through the murk and fog of the river's breath, Through the dank dark night he rides to his death But the song that he sings is gay and glad, For he's off to the war and away. " Then hey! for our honest king! " (he cries) "And hey! for truth, and down with lies! And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes — For I'm off to the war and away! " March, 191 5, Baltimore, Md. II MISSING (In memory of Emilio Delvivo, an officer in the Italian army, who died in the Trentino, February, 1916, for his country. He was just twenty-two years old.) So, it's your turn to go, soldier, my soldier? " Missing," just " missing," the newspapers say. Who now will cherish the poor, grey-haired mother, Soldier, my soldier, so far away? There you lie out on the cold, wind-swept mountain- side, Lost in a lonely grave under the snow ; Just like the other lads killed for their country's sake! God called your name, too — you had to go. Dear little son of mine, soldier, my soldier, Such round, red cheeks you had, dimpled and gay! Soft little smiling babe close to my bosom pressed, What warmth of life was yours — just yesterday! The world will forget you, soldier, my soldier, How nobly you served and how bravely you died ; Only the angels in heav'n will remember — And mother — dear soldier, with love and with pride. March, 1016, Haver jord, Pa. 12 MARCHING There's a marching through the night, There's a ring of many feet; There's a sense of quiet might Felt along the pulsing street. And through pulsing street and lane — While our aching hearts are dumb — Keeping time to beating rain, Echo fife and drum. There's a marching through the day, There's a tramp of steady feet: Boys — yours and mine — so gay, Bravely march their death to meet. Death — with victory so dear — Will be theirs ere set of sun. Bugles, ring the triumph clear, Battle to be won! There's a marching through the night, There's a press of many feet: Back-tide of the storm and fight Solemnly doth throb and beat. Throb and beat and vast recoil Racks the whole world's tortured breast. We, the women, sweat and toil — But our soldiers rest. 13 King of the Air There's a marching through the day, There's a tramp of weary feet : Little children, through the grey, Dragging on in cold and heat. . . Victory! Sound, drum and fife! Trumpets proud, peal every one! We have given the best in life That a cause be won ! 25 July, 1016, Siasconset, Nantucket. 14 SONG: "SOFT WIND, SWEET WIND" Soft wind, sweet wind, with the scent of red wild rose, Blowing swift across the heather, friend to wel- come me — See! my hands are empty of the blossoms bright I used to toss, And my heart is not for playing by the singing sea. Soft wind, sweet wind, there's another field I know, Where the flowers are crushed, and there are sad, dread things to see. . . . When another summer sun flushes all the moor with bloom, Blow my soldier safely home across the singing sea. 8 July, IQI7, Siasconset, Nantucket. 15 THE BATTALION OF DEATH The Russian hosts are fleeing before their mighty foe! They are scattered, lost and helpless, like wild, wind-driven snow, And the German guns are bellowing behind them as they go. In vain the Russian cannon let forth a roar of scorn, And pour their death into those traitorous, broken ranks forlorn; No power can stem their mad retreat, or bind vast armies torn. The citadel is taken without a show of fight, And the Germans throng the city. There'll be revelry tonight, And they'll cheer the Russian armies for their das- tard, sorry flight! Then in the night the fortress-watch, half drowsing, is aware Of rumbling of swift hoof-beats, of a sudden trumpet's blare; And the great bell peals alarum, bugles call and torches flare. 16 King of the Air There's crash of hoofs upon the stones across the city square ! There's fighting demon-wild tonight — shrill cries upon the air; And many a drunken Hun is slain on threshold, bed and stair. But those who worked this havoc are lying still and dead, Their slender limbs all twisted, their white breasts stained with red, A crown of dusty clotted hair upon each comely head. The women's " Death Battalion " has come to wipe away The disgrace of Russia's armies, the shame of this ill day. And saints look down, all reverent; and men look up and pray. For many a noble spirit from home and hearthstone warm, Sweet maid and wife and mother — each well-loved, gentle form, For pride of race — for Russia — lies dead in the night and storm. O Russia's mighty armies, now turn and make a stand ! A new day floods the sky with gold and brightens your dark land. Be men, for love of Russia — and this brave little band! August, 19 17, River St. Lawrence. 17 / CARI MORTI 1 Far away over the wide, wide sea There's a village small I know, Beside a lake in a quiet vale Where storm-winds never blow; For a fortress strong girds it about With rocky peak and scaur. The smooth lake lies in silence deep And hears no din of war. Upon each steep and terraced slope Shine out the plots of green; While far aloft against the blue The black milch-goats are seen. The long lake glimmers, and the firs Stand watching, straight and still. The mountain torrents rush along To turn the droning mill. It is a peaceful, homely scene When dark-blue shadows fall, And the mill-wheel stops, and the goats file home At the goat-girl's wild, clear call. 1 " The Dear Dead." In a little village of the Trentino, a church-bell tolls every night, and the peasants say "per i cari morti." 18 King of the Air From mountain pastures up above, With loads of fresh-mown hay The dogs drag down their wooden sleds. Rough children shout and play. There's a clatter of clogs on the noisy stones To the chapel in the square, Where grey walls echo an old priest's chant, And vapors scent the air. Down drops the dark and the lights go out Like sleepy eyes that close. The town and the lake and the guarding crags Are locked in deep repose. But suddenly the still night wakes At the call of a deep, slow bell, That beats the air with solemn strokes : It tolls the dead men's knell. It calls and calls to the dear, lost dead, It clamors in wild, wild pain. Its dirge peals out across the lake, And the hills sob back again. It mourns and mourns for the dear, lost dead — Do the living people heed ? — It prays for the men who still must die, — For the wounded, in their need. That little village far away Where storm-winds never blow, Has its own throb of bitter pain, Its share of the great world's woe. August, 1917, River St. Lawrence. 19 11 WHEN THE PEACE-BELLS RING Do you mind the cottage, brother, Where the mother raised us boys, And October chestnuts roasting, And the simple, homely joys? You'll be tramping back, my brother, At the calling of the spring, And right glad will be your welcome home When the peace-bells ring. Do you mind the little village From the top of our big hill In the damp, sweet summer evenings When the fields are dim and still, And the lights of home are shining, And the sleepy crickets sing? You'll see them all again, brother — When the peace-bells ring. Do you mind how Joan and Mary Waved us both a brave goodbye? And the pretty flowers they gave us, And the bright blue morning sky? You'll be marching back to greet them At the calling of the spring. . . . But I'll be on a far, far road — When the peace-bells ring. 1 October, igiy, Haverford, Pa. 20 CADORNA'S RETREAT Cold and weary, with sick, dazed brains, Lashed and numbed by freezing rains, Fiercely pressed by the German bands — And little to fight with but poor, bare hands — Italy's armies, crazed with pain, Run for their lives on the Lombard plain! Only a little time ago They scaled vast heights of frozen snow, Their stout hearts braved iced peak and crest, Their arms were reaching towards Trieste. Strong souls, they strove with might and main — But now they die on the Lombard plain! What men could do, they did. But they Were flesh and blood. Their lips were grey With deadly cold. They had prayed in need For guns — more guns — but who gave heed ? They had called to friends for help in vain — So they fought with their hands on the Lombard plain. Great-hearted lads of Italy's lands, Doing your best with your plucky hands, Hammered and bent by a brutal foe — We hail- you heroes, wherever you go, And the world with plaudits will ring again When you make your stand on the Lombard plain ! 30 October, iqij, Haverford, Pa. 21 MOTHER AND CHILD " Mother, I see your face again, And your hair shines white by the lamp ! ' " Son, I dream thou liest in pain Through the night and the bitter damp! " " Mother, why are your brown locks gone, And the smile in your clear, kind eyes ? " " Son, I dream thou diest alone In a stark field under the skies! " " Mother, I'm like a child that's lost — I fear the wind in the cloud ! " 11 Son, I dream that the fine grey frost Covers thee close in a shroud." " Mother, there's a wolf in the muttering pines, And a great bird circles above ! " " Son, I dream of the moonflower vines On the eve when I first knew love." " Mother, there's pain, O Mother, there's pain ! Help me, angels of grace ! " " Son, I dream of my soul's rich gain, And the sun on thy new-born face." 22 King of the Air 11 Mother, O mother, I see a light, And you in a dress of gold ! " " Son, in Paradise this night Thee in my arms I'll fold." " Mother, I hear a singing voice, A melody sweet and wild ! " 11 Son, it is time — thy hand — rejoice! " (The mother folds her child.) November, 1917, Haverford, Pa. 23 THE DOVES OF VENICE In simple majesty it stands — the church of good Saint Mark! Bronze roof and gilded minaret shine by the watching moon; But on the silent water-ways the palaces are dark: Their empty windows dully stare into the waste lagoon. The bare Piazza echoes with the sobbing of the tide. The lordly house of all the Doges waits, serene and proud. The ancient Orologio looks calmly down beside The old church-wall; but through its arch there flows no merry crowd. And do we think of other times, when all the stately square Would ring with music when the band played waltz or barcarolle, And we would sit at Florian's, and dream, and linger there ? — The moon about San Marco's dome would wreathe an aureole. 24 King of the Air And can we still remember the doves — their happy flight From windy Campanile and shadowy recess ? — They flashed like messengers of joy across the summer night To bring fresh hope to tired hearts, to comfort and to bless. And still they flit serenely from dome to belfry- tower. They do not heed the sound of guns, the tramp of marching men. From spires aloft their watch they keep, and see the storm-clouds lower With fearless eyes, with faith supreme, unknow- ing sin or pain. O faithful doves, at some wild dawn where shelter could you find ? Men's violence would wound your tender hearts, your gentle eyes! . . . They do not fear, they only trust ; their thoughts are always kind — And they shall eat from angels' hands in peaceful Paradise ! May, IQ/8, Haverford, Pa. 25 IN DOVER TOWN (March 21, 1918) There's a wild gust sweeping through Dover town It bellows and shrieks over meadow and down. It tears the blossoming fronds of the trees, It sears the flowers and kills the bees. Swarming storm-clouds mutter and frown — And a fierce gale leaps through Dover town. Doors and windows clatter and shake. A great fight's forward, the Huns are awake! Reverberations of man-made thunder Fill shuddering earth and sea with wonder. Mists of battle come scudding down On the throbbing walls of Dover town. Off to the east where thunder crashes, The sea is lit with scarlet flashes. Those red streaks threading the smoky pall Mark where our brave lads fight — and fall. Across the trembling tides of brown The war-fires flicker on Dover town. 26 King of the Air Down on the quaj^s pale women wait Silently at the grim sea's gate. With eager eyes they search the grey For the first dim ship from over the way That shall bring them back, as night steals down, What once were men — to Dover town. Ah, youth ! in the scorching flame of guns, Matching your skill with the might of the Huns, Testing your mettle and power and nerve, Giving up body and spirit, to serve — You have baffled praise, you have shamed re- nown! . . . Then fling out brave banners, O Dover town! March, 1018, Haverford, Pa. 27 MONCHY — CAMBRAI — ST. QUENTIN — LA FERE (Palm Sunday, March 24, 1918) Even this awful hour must have an ending, Even those iron frames must falter, fail. A mightier hand than theirs will clasp and hold them, And nature will prevail. The thunder of their cannon shakes the ages — A thousand thousand belch their scorching breath — But on the seared field brother calls to brother, And foe is friend in death. The golden dawn will brighten their dark meadows, The pitying spring will smooth their scarred plain, And nature's yearning heart will ease, with blos- soms, The memory of their pain; And in some happier age, this agony Of earth and beast and man, this battle old, Will seem, to children by the fireside playing, A story that is told: A story of great deeds and valiant peoples, An epic where our noblest live again, A glad and mighty hymn that sings forever Their joy — without their pain. March, 1918, Haverford, Pa. 28 BUTTERFLY Come, little butterfly, out into the sunshine, In the yellow sunshine, where the daisies dance ! Come and play with me awhile on the smooth meadow. (Rough and bleak the meadows in far-off France ! ) Here by this apple-tree (fallen are the blossoms) Somebody kissed me — just awhile ago. Breezes strewed the pink and white apple-blooms about us, Tossed the lithe branches gaily to and fro. Here by this apple-tree — hark ! pretty butterfly — Two strong arms I felt, a warm, warm cheek, And a heart that throbbed so wildly — listen, merry butterfly ! (A grave away in France is far, far to seek!) Come, little butterfly, out into the sunshine, In the yellow sunshine, while the summer lasts. Soon comes bitter cold, and long nights, and widow- hood. . . . Come and play with me awhile before the winter- blasts! March, IQi8, Haver ford, Pa. 29 FIELD GREY (25 March, 1918. Before Amiens and Arras, after five days of battle.) Field grey, and field grey, On, close-packed, they stream all day. Mow them down, mow them down, Mix them with the earth so brown. Scorch them with our flaming guns, Target fair — a million Huns ! Field grey, and field grey — Wither them away! Field grey, and field grey, Let them hear our shrapnel play ! Cut them low, cut them low, We treat weeds and Boches so. Root them out with sharpest guns, Target fair — a million Huns ! Field grey, and field grey — Scatter them away! Field grey, and field grey, Forward still they pour all day, Falling 'neath our gunshots, crying, Gasping, sweating, bleeding, dying. Bold shock-troops, with fife and drum, On and on and on they come; Swinging on with tireless feet, Light and supple, strong and fleet, Bounding on with eager breath, Surging on to certain death. 30 King of the Air Field grey, and field grey, Oh, the pity of this day! Atoms in a maelstrom wild, Hardly more, each, than a child, Who can blame them, loyal, strong, For a system that's all wrong? They are but the helpless tools Of a pack of monstrous fools ! But we cannot let them pass! They must stain the springing grass. They, who are the sport of fate, Shall not pass — we hold the gate! With our banners streaming high, We, too, know the way to die ! Field grey, and field grey, Pressing onward, night and day — Mow them down, mow them down, Mix them with the earth so brown, Stay them with our puissant guns — Valiant striplings, boy-Huns! Field grey, and field grey, Shall not pass this way! March, ioi8, Haverford, Pa. 31 GATES OF AMIENS For the honor of your flag, Hold them, gates of Amiens! Though your timbers strain and sag, Hold them, gates of Amiens! Hold them for your country's pride, For the heroes who have died, And for liberty world-wide — Soldier-gates of Amiens! Throbbing bars of flesh and blood, Hold them, gates of Amiens! Now the war-tide is at flood. (Hold them, gates of Amiens!) Soon their fierce war-lust will fail, And their savage hearts will quail. Right and courage must prevail — Dauntless gates of Amiens! Though with unimagined might (Hold them, gates of Amiens!) They assail you day and night, (Hold them, gates of Amiens!) And the rivers all run red, Choking with their thousands dead — Always finer draws fate's thread. (Hold them, gates of Amiens!) 32 King of the Air For your city's steeples, towers, Hold them, gates of Amiens ! For its fountains and its flowers, Hold them, gates of Amiens! For a little child to play Safe and joyous on its way — Hold them, hold them night and day, Gallant gates of Amiens ! Welded firm, with nerves of steel, Hold them, gates of Amiens ! Hearken to the world's appeal! Hold them, gates of Amiens ! And the glad, exultant bell In Time's belfry-tower shall tell How you held surpassing well, Noble gates of Amiens! March, 1918, Haver ford, Pa. 33 VICTORS! (24 June, 1918) Hail to the conquerors! Crown them with bay! Italy's armies are victors today! Stout-hearted, strong-handed, dashing and bold, They've driven their foes out of every stronghold. They rule the Piave from mountain to sea. Then hail to the soldiers of brave Italy! Like an avalanche sweeping from mountain to plain, The Austrian hordes had assaulted amain! But their strong ranks were broken, their units fell fast, Their legions were bended like trees in a blast. Austria's armies, bleeding and blind, Whirled and fled like leaves in the wind ! Silent, pale Venice, now sing and be glad ! The fierce bands are fleeing — no loot have they had! The pearls on thy bosom shall never be theirs, And safe thy white doves shall breathe thy soft airs, For the great robber-armies are routed this day. — Then call from thy belfries and bid men to pray ! 34 King of the Air Hail to the conquerors! Crown them with bay! Tower, castello, flaunt banners today ! Florence, Ravenna, Verona and Rome, Make ready to welcome your noble sons home! They have won the world's honor from sea to far sea. Then hail to the heroes of brave Italy ! 26 June, 1018, Haverford, Pa. 35 THE TURN OF THE TIDE (The Great German Retreat, July 18- ) The tide that was at flood now turns. While breakers toss their crests on high And reach out hungry arms, the sky With amber dawn-light glows and burns. A new day gilds each seething wave. The tide has turned. A force unseen Presses the charging hosts of green That wildly clamor, vainly rave. And like this tide, another turns — A tide of horses, men and guns. Oh, slow and thick the red Marne runs Past slimy mosses, clotted ferns. Back over ruined meadow, town Smirched by its track, the foul tide flows. It finds no beauty: each garden rose Was long since torn and trampled down. It finds no shelter: the homesteads dark Stand roofless 'neath a smoke-stained sky Where bloated vultures wheel and cry. The fields are heaped with corpses stark. 36 King of the Air Back rolls the tide through the heavy weather O'er bodies of boys and dead old men. Shuddering, moaning with horror and pain The living and dying drift back together. Woe and death on the dark crests ride As they flood the world. . . . But I dreamed this night From Heaven there stretched a hand of light Which stilled forever the rolling tide. SI July, 1918, Siasconset, Nantucket. 37 CROSSING All through a summer afternoon Strange-tinted troop-ships, seaward bound, File past the island light; grim, grey, Their convoys press them round. They seek no dark, concealing fog To hide them on their open way. The sky is bright. They feel no dread Of those who lurk for prey. All through a summer night they pass, Sending across the level tide Flash following on flash, to show How all in safety ride. And many and many another night They'll swing across the surging deep, Tossed by the winds and stormy seas, While we in quiet sleep. And many and many another night, Their hearts unshaken, on they'll go, Knowing no fear, with will intent To meet a deadlier foe. Nor fear must we who watch them stream So boldly, gallantly to sea. God guides them through the storm and dark That cross to set men free. Siasconset, Nantucket, Mass., 8 August, 1918. 38 THE BLUE STAR AND THE GOLD 1 He did not linger and wait For his country to see the right! He went as a volunteer to France When we said it wasn't our fight. And into the great war-game, Not counting nor heeding the cost, He threw the strength of his splendid youth ; He played with death — and lost ! The blue star high in our window Is stained and old and dim ; We'll make it dazzling-bright today With gold — to honor him. The years may dull the symbol Our eager hands have made — But the star of love on the flag of our hearts Is gold that cannot fade. Haver j or d, Pa., 21 October, 1918. 1 In loving recognition of our son, Lieutenant Horace B. Forman 3rd, of the U. S. Aviation Service, A.E.F., who for a year and a half served as a volunteer with the French and American armies abroad. He died in France the four- teenth day of September, 1918, aged twenty-four years. In the words of his former French captain (Capitaine Robert, Centre d'Instruction des Eleves Aspirants, Issou- dun) : " II est tombe en brave au champ d'honneur, pour la France." 39 HIS LAST FLIGHT Up to the azure sky he flew, So straight and sure, so swift and true, Away, away, On wings of grey — With a joy we never knew. He loved old earth in this autumn-time ; But his fine, free spirit bade him climb Up and away, On wings of grey, To a higher air and clime. He lived and felt, in one short span, All joys that fall to the lot of a man. Away, away, On wings of grey, A gay, wild course he ran! And then one day when life flowed strong In his bold young heart, with a laugh and a song, Away, away, On wings of grey, He sailed the skies along, 40 King of the Air Till he came to a gap in the azure bright He darted through, he sped from sight ! Away, away, On wings of grey, He soared on his last glad flight. How full, how rich such life, to fly — For a pure ideal — right up to the sky, Away, away, On wings of grey — And gloriously to die! 25 October, 1918, Haver ford, Pa. 41 THE BELLS OF VICTORY In the still, cold night a message came That kindled our land to leaping flame: 11 A truce is signed — the fighting's done - The last shot fired — the great war won ! From eastern shore to western sea Shout forth the bells of victory ! We hear the solemn music break From dusky hill and sombre lake, Dim way-side chapel, minster tall, Dark ships within the harbor-wall : The bells proclaim with wild applause The winning of a mighty cause! Earth trembles, and the shadowy air Quivers with volley and trumpet's blare, Horn, whistle, siren, bugle, drum! We try to cheer — our lips are dumb : Too sound they sleep across the sea To hear our bells of victory! Friend and foe alike they rest In shallow ditches, breast to breast. Their bloody toil and pain are done; They sleep forever — while the sun Up-rises on a world new-born In peace, this holy autumn morn. 42 King of the Air We hear afar the thrones crash down — Gaunt famine wail from town to town — And haughty, ruined nations' cries For mercy! — Did they mercy prize? — Downward he falls — the blind, lost Hun : No place for him in the golden sun! But for that band that barred the way In Belgian fields, one summer day — Those peerless troops of France who died — Contemptibles, the flower and pride Of England — Gallant Italy. . . . And those who bridged a vast, strong sea — Heroic dead beneath the grass Who brought this miracle to pass, This first day of a thousand years Of peace — we've reverence and tears. They gave themselves to make men free: Great souls who won this victory! A glory lies on autumn hills ! The solemn paean swells and thrills! Strong winds sweep down November skies — And on the world a glory lies ; While through our hearts peal full and free, Transcendent bells of victory ! // November, zqi8, Haver ford, Pa. 43 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND MERMEN You can hear the breakers booming up above, With a dash and crash and roar upon the shore ; Oh, the onward, surging, heaving tide we love, As it foams along with mighty rush and roar. There's a wild and gladsome madness in the waves, And the merry dancing combers crested white; There's a joy to dive and splash among the caves, And to hear the gale a-howling in the night. Then we'll swim and leap away through the spray, And we'll sport among the wonders of the deep ; Up on earth their hearts are sad — but ours are gay, For the sea's eternal youth we ever keep ! 47 A CHILD'S FANCY All around the house it goes; It drags its feet across the grass; It shakes the panes, it creaks the door — Yet I can never see it pass. It scrapes and rustles 'gainst the wall ; It moves the filmy curtains white; Upon the stair I hear it fall ; It slides across the floor at night. Yes, all night long it creeps about The house — and yet it's not the wind, For wind can moan, and it is dumb. It gropes and slips — it must be blind. Nor is it swish of swirling leaves, Or crackle of some old dead bough. It's just not anything at all. . . . But listen — you can hear it now ! And all the day it bends and sways The hollyhocks beside the wall; It mounts the roof with shuffling steps ; It slams the shutter in the hall. Indeed I don't know what it is — It isn't dog, or cat, or mouse. . . . And I'll be glad when it is gone — This thing that goes around the house! 48 SEA OF PEARL Sea of pearl, with thy rainbow splendor Misted over with veils of spray, Glimmering sea, all rosy and tender, Fresh in the shine of the new spring day, Sea of pearl, Sea of pearl, What dost thou bring to the heart of a girl ? "A sparkle of light and a ripple of laughter; A sprinkle of foam on the breeze of the spring; A little kiss — with a rainbow after — A belt of coral, a golden ring. . . . Sea of pearl, Sea of pearl, This do I bring to the heart of a girl." Sea of pearl, all grey in the gloaming, Flecked with gleams of shimmering light, Through thy brightness the dusk is roaming, Over thy beauty looms the night. Sea of pearl, Sea of pearl, What dost thou bring to the heart of a girl? 49 King of the Air " A shell brimful of tears do I give her; A wreath of dark sea-weeds forlorn ; My passionate surge in her breast forever The throb of ages yet unborn. . . . Sea of pearl, Sea of pearl, This do I bring to the heart of a girl." 50 JOY Joy! for the frolicking wind comes rollicking Over the bare, brown hill. The dead leaves swirl and dance and whirl ; Gay flags of cloud the skies unfurl To welcome the morning chill. Oh, I am away with joy today Beneath the wild, free blue! My swift feet run the hills upon, And the whole world's filled with the wind and the sun, The wind and the sun . . . and you ! 51 INDIAN BOAT-SONG Onward rushes the river stream, (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) Ruddy and wild in the red moon's gleam ; Hark! the waves on the rocky shore! (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) Where is my love, O whither away? (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) She floats in the marsh-mist curling grey, Her voice shrills in the breakers' roar. (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) My love, she sings in the whistling wind ; (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) Her kiss is sweet, her smile is kind; She waits for me when day is o'er. (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) Across the dark she calls to me ; (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) Her eyes shine wild from rock and tree; Her face gleams white from the river-floor. (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) I see her near, I feel her breath; (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) My dearest love, her name is Death. . . . Oh, fierce the rapids rush and roar! (Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 52 SONG The sun is striding through the sky — And strongly on strides he; The warm sweet breezes shout for joy And kiss the blossomed tree. My sleeping soul awakes again, And sings — for love of thee. The sky is all ablaze with light ; The birds sing shrill with glee ; The meadows shine with new fresh flowers, Bluebell, anemone. My quiet heart unfolds anew, And blooms — for love of thee. The strong sun clasps the tender west; The stars steal out to see; To rest goes every happy flower, Each butterfly and bee. Once more my spirit looks to heaven, And prays — for love of thee. 53 THE OLD WIND The wind is gay and strong tonight As he sings upon the sea, And joins in the merry dance Of moonbeams, wild and free. In mad caprice he leaps to land And runs along the shore, Springs up the cliff with lusty shout, And darts across the moor. He rushes down the village street And calls, " Come out with me! " He shakes the doors, he raps the panes, And tries the folks to see. The old-folks gather round the stoves, With crutch, footstool and cane; They huddle close and whisper, " There's That old wind home again. " We think he's dead and gone — and then He's back across the moors, And makes our sagging rafters creak, And shakes our shrunken doors; 54 King of the Air 11 And knocks our tottering chimneys down, And tears our neat wood-bind, And makes our driftwood fires smoke ; — Away, away, old wind ! " The old wind laughs, and slaps the panes, And capers in the street; Then bounds across the shining moors With footsteps light and fleet. " Ha, ha! " he jeers, " Then what care I? Alone I'll dance and sing. But I'll torment those mortals old With nip, and pinch, and sting! " So through the world he mocking goes — But cold and lone goes he ; For nothing but the strange old moon Dares bear him company. 55 ■ NOT DEATH THAT MOST MEN DREAD I FEAR" Not death that most men dread I fear, But only this: lest the refrain That merry waves sing on the shore Should never make me smile again; Lest the unfolding of the leaves, The mist of green on bush and tree, Should lose the power to thrill my heart With promise of the good to be ; Lest, when the moon from summer skies Scatters her flowers across the land, My pulses should not leap for joy Beneath the touch of thy warm hand. 56 THE VOICE IN THE FOG Faint through the thickening wreaths of mist that garland the brilliant brow of the ocean — Ocean emerald-blue in the noonday, shining with changing, wavering sheen ; Faint but clear o'er the foam-strewn tides that tremble and heave with eternal motion, Steals a strange monotonous murmur — the voice of one unknown, unseen. On glide the fog-spirits, clouding the radiant noon- day, trailing their veils of whiteness, Twining and curling across the wide blue fields that glow with perpetual bloom; On they come, threading the dazzling gold of the noontide's quivering, shimmering brightness, Wearing a fabric of pearl and silver, fine mist- lace, on ocean's loom. Booms the sea with its swing and swirl of heavy waves on the unseen beaches; Shrills the cry of the light-winged gull that is held in the net of fathomless gloom; But clearer ringing, there calls the deep insistent voice from the outer reaches Of boundless invisible billow and sky that lie beneath the fog's soft plume. 57 King of the Air The wild voice sobs a prayer for the ships that proudly pass o'er the treacherous surges; It sounds the knell of the mariners floating for- ever beneath the lonely tides. Steadfastly through the misty spaces, warning sea- farers — or chanting their dirges — The fog-buoy peals his faithful horn as high on the crest of the waves he rides. 58 " OUT OF THE YEARS AND THE RAIN " Through the gloom of the brooding shadows, Through the cold mists of the night, You passed like a gleam of sunshine, Filling the room with light. Out of the years and the rain You came to my hearth again. We sat by the fire together And talked as good friends do, Of books and work and playing, Till the sleepy clock chimed two. Out of the years and the rain You came to my side again. You lit the little candle, And we climbed the same old stair, Your hand in mine, my dearest, My cheek against your hair. . . . Out of the years and the rain You came to my arms again. And then, in the joy of loving, I woke in the moon's cold beam, And heard the night wind sighing. ... And it was just a dream. Out of the years and the rain You'll never come again ! 59 CALM The storm of yesterday is past. We hear no more The wild winds rave, the rude tides crash The rocky shore. The lucent water, smooth and clear, Shows every line Of curling fern and sea-carved crag And tufted pine. That small brown bird on fringed bough Of cedar green, Dreams silently. In caverns deep, Waves lap unseen. The slow bee drones ; the locust chants Its noonday prayer. A faint, far chime of church-bells threads The sun-sweet air. Warm goldenrod in vivid bloom On ledges high, Glows like a yellow cloud against The dark-blue sky. Tomorrow's storm is not yet come ; This gentle day Rests on the sad earth's breast, to charm Its grief away. 60 TO WILLIAM L. PRICE, ARCHITECT We loved you, friend; For all the beauty of the budding trees, And all the splendor of the autumn leaves Were in your breast. And now you rest In kingly state beneath October's bloom; Your tireless weaving on Life's throbbing loom Is at an end. We loved you, friend; You were the Master-builder, and you knew Each line and angle to make strong and true — Column and frieze; Not lost were these In the clear vision of the work complete, The dream made real. Yet 'neath pure Beauty's feet Your art you'd bend. We loved you, friend ; For first you were a man. In you the tide Of life swept to the outer stars ; and side By side with you Walked Love with you. To every living creature, great or small, Man, woman, little child — you loved us all — Your hand you'd lend. 61 King of the Air We loved you, friend. Do you remember how we've laughed with you, And lived and worked with you — and cried with you? Oh, keep us, dear, Still very near; And let the lustre of your spirit rare Shine in our hearts — and make the world more fair. We love you , friend/ October 18, igi6, Haver ford, Pa. 62 MORNING Up from the sea comes the radiant morning, Shining and white through the mists of the night. Over her broad breast gleam ripples like jewels. Far off, on rip and shoal, foam flashes bright. Down on the dunes all the birds wake to greet her. Song-sparrow, sea-gull and sand-piper gay Make the air tremble with sweet thrills of gladness, While mighty waves, like a great organ, play. Out on the sea there's a little boat stirring — Token of all a man's toil, a man's pain. Lonely boat, lost in the mists of the night-tide, Comfort and hope morning brings you again! 63 FIRELIGHT Red gleams of firelight, and tall clock ticking slow. . . . Through the quiet room soft shadows stealing to and fro. . . . Pine smoke a-curling in the deep fire-place. . . . And the fragrant, blessed warmth flushing all your face. . . . Cold wind a-sighing in the poplar by the door. . . . Merry, elfish, ruby lights twinkling on the floor. . . . Icy twigs a-shivering against the roof-tree. . . . And your smiling, friendly eyes shining back at me. . . . Through the frosted casement a picture chill and white Of snowy garden hedgerows and still moon- light. . . . In the dusk the trembling glow of logs that fade — and part. . . . But a light that cannot die streaming through my heart! 6 4 IN CAMP Come, friend — I miss you sore tonight, Your merry look, your hand. The little crickets cheerily sing, And fire-shadows dance in the sand. What, never a note from the old violin? Now play me a tune, I pray, For the small white moon looks lonely and old Far up through the marsh-mist grey. Come, friend ! My ears are keen, so keen, I could hear your eager pace From the outermost star on the great highway That crosses the hills of space! Ah! there's an echo! At last you're here! Are you hiding behind that tree, Watching me pile the spruce-logs high? . . . It's the night-wind answers me. That old violin, with its joyous voice, Will sing me no songs again ; But through my heart light footfalls pass Like the whisper of summer rain. 6s MOONLIGHT Moonlight through the years, Pure and calm and bright, Lays her tender hand of peace On the yearning night. Moonlight on the sea, Tranquil, passionless, With her white and gentle touch Calms its restlessness. Moonlight on the shore Lulls the windy dunes, Charms the little waves to sing Quiet, drowsy tunes. Moonlight in the streets Of some sordid town, On each clumsy, crooked spire Sets a gleaming crown. Moonlight on some poor Sleeping beggar old, Covers all his squalid rags With a coat of gold. 66 King of the Air Moonlight in the fields Where the wounded lie, Soothes the anguish of their souls, Helping them to die. Moonlight on a grave Lingering awhile, Cheers the cold and lonely fern With her friendly smile. Moonlight in a heart Floods the darkness there, Driving forth the bitter shades Of an old despair. Moonlight through the years, Pure and calm and bright, Lays her tender hand of peace On the yearning night. 67 SONG Thou art the virile mountain stream That surges down to brim the sea. For gentle joy of thee I gleam — I am the pale anemone. Above thy brink I reach to thee. Thou leapest past with shout and song ; Thou strainest to the far, bright sea, And wilt not bear me, blest, along. I cannot follow thy swift way; My frail hands wave a slow goodbye. A little cloud of silver spray Clings to me like a memory. 68 THE LITTLE GREY LANE Back again to the little grey lane, In the cool of the night, in the mist and the rain; The still little lane that is fast asleep. Back to the little grey lane again. Over the hill there's a noisy town. Burning bright the sun beats down On toiling throngs, through long, hot days — Scorching bright on the weary town. The streets are fine with banners gay, And flags from towered buildings sway. The city throbs with marching feet — And slowly onward drags the day. Gay sounds the band in the dusty square, And hearts are reckless and faces fair When the smoking sun burns hot and low. The city pants in the sultry air. Weariness hides in the city tall; And broken hopes; and sin; and gall; And loneliness that sears like the sun. — The music trembles over all. Back again to the little grey lane, To ease the heart of pain, ah ! pain ; The grey little house in the misty street, To rest in the quiet, to dream again. 69 SONNET The singing of the wind that swings the tree, And flush of blossoms on an April noon ; The shine of jewels that the winter moon Strews on the ice-locked lake and snow-rimmed sea ; Full chords of mating birds' rich minstrelsy — Gay-voiced warbler, or wild-throated loon — Brought me no joy. My sense to nature's boon Slept, till life's tide turned, tossing upward — thee ! Thine was the smile that quickened my dull heart, And thine the word that brought my soul good cheer. It was thy hand that guided on the ways Of earnest, happy striving. My weak art Is strong through thee. I needs must hold thee dear: Thy friendship is the zenith of my days! 70 ONE BOY LESS There's one boy less in the world today ; (Oh, lad with the bright, bright eyes!) Keen to venture, brave and gay, Singing he's left us, he's gone his way. (Oh, lad with the bright, bright eyes!) There stands the tree he used to climb, (Ah, lad with the winsome smile!) And its red leaves burn with the autumn-time; Its life is long, it's in its prime. (Ah, lad with the winsome smile!) Here hangs his hat in the closet dim, (Oh, lad with the joyous voice!) And his glove and his reel and his football trim, And his first dress-suit — he was straight and slim. (Oh, lad with the joyous voice!) And here is the friend he used to love. (Ah, lad with the heart of gold!) She'll cherish them all — the ball and the glove, And the reel — for the sake of the young, sweet love. (Ah, lad with the heart of gold!) There's one boy less in the world today ; (Oh, lad with the soul of fire!) But there's one heart more to work and play And love, in the realms of the far-away. (Oh, lad with the soul of fire!) 7i THE SHIPS OF YESTERDAY I stood upon the lonely shore And watched them sail away, West-bound, the fair, white-winged ships, The ships of yesterday. Oh, swiftly sailed the ship of Youth, With flaunting colors gay, And mirth and music at her helm — Mad ship of yesterday! The ship of Joy, with sails spread wide, Ploughed by with foam and spray, While laughter rang from stem to stern — Glad ship of yesterday! With stately grace careened and skimmed Adown the wind-swept bay The ship of Beauty, rose-bedecked — Proud ship of yesterday. And ah ! the ship of Love passed by ; With tears I prayed her stay. She held her sure and steady course — Rare ship of yesterday. 72 King of the Air But slowly sailed the ship of Hope, Into the distance grey ; She plunged and veered, yet turned not back Bright ship of yesterday. I stand upon the lonely shore; The years go on alway ; Far over seas have sped my dreams, My ships of yesterday. But see ! the eastern sky grows bright, And bright the dusky bay. . . . They're sailing home around the world — Staunch ships of yesterday! 73 SONG My love is dear to me. The golden-rod blooms by the sea ; The asters' hue Is the sky's own blue — But my love's not here to see, Oh, my love's not here to see. My love, I hold him dear. The wind sings sweet and clear Its joyous song All the day long — But my love's not by to hear, Oh, my love's not by to hear. As slowly round they wheel At night the stars reveal, All golden-bright, Love infinite — But my love's not here to feel, Oh, my love's not here to feel. The tides that swing and sweep, Peal sea-chimes slow and deep; And bright sea-beams Fill all my dreams — But my love not here doth sleep, Ah, my love not here doth sleep. A sun-rise cloud glows high, Like a rose, in the pearl-grey sky, Till it drifts from view In the misty blue. — So my love, my dear passed by, So my love, my dear passed by. 74 THE RIVER There's rain upon the river. The clear drops dance and sparkle ; Across the sky the rain-clouds trail their veils of misty lace. Far down the smoking channel gleams out the birches' silver, And sleek, bright fishes leap and play upon the river's face. A gale is on the river. The stinging spray is flying ; Big purple packs of wind-swelled clouds loom grim and dark and low. My little boat, close-reefed, skims by like water-bird, white-feathered, That gaily brushes dashing wave when whistling storm-winds blow. There's sunshine on the river. The small waves laugh and gurgle On jagged rock and crooked reef, on black- toothed, foaming bar. The strong blue current sweeps along through windy, sunlit reaches, To clasp the radiant yellow sands that glisten from afar. There's moonlight on the river; and all the broad space shimmers With ripples smooth of black and gold, with sheen of amber light. Old thoughts of far-off, happy days come trooping back to mingle With the fresh breeze on the river and the glory of the night. 75 TO HENRY Little thoughtful son of mine With the brown eyes tender, Like a young birch straight and tall, Shapely, lithe and slender, Why dost leave thy games and play While the day still lingers, Earnestly to scan the sea, Holding fast my fingers? Just a speck of misty sail Tips the rim of ocean; Is it pirate, buccaneer, Smuggler, " Flying Dutchman " ? Hopest thou to see mermaids — Silver fins a-gleaming — And to hear their sweet, wild chant O'er the waters streaming? Or is it a deeper thought, Born of dusk's commencing: Vision bright of ships of gold, Past our grosser sensing? Child thou art — yet half a man, Although still unknowing; Canst thou then the future see, All the picture growing? 76 King of the Air We've been friends and playmates gay Through the sunny weather ; And grey twilight settling down Finds us still together. But the years cast lightly by Passionate devotion ; In some golden ship I'll sail To that greater ocean. Some day, looking out to sea, By thy side another, Kiss her, dear — and I shall know That was for thy mother! 77 " WHEN THE ROSES ARE DEAD " When the roses are dead and the garden is bare, And black is the frost, And the thin, withered leaves drift away through the air, And are scattered and lost; When the wind blows keen, and love, like a flame, Has gone out in the gale, And there's no sport left in life's old game, And the playing is stale; When the music and feasting are over and done, And the lights glimmer low, And there's not a soul thinks of you under the sun, Or cares where you go ; Then come to my brown, humble cottage at even: There are flowers to tend. . . . And the rose-tree blooms to the window of heaven In the heart of a friend ! 78 PROSE THE OLD VASE The old East India vase stood upon one end of the chest in a corner of the old garret, where it had stood for many years. The dust thick upon it was gently stirred by the breeze that blew in through the open lattice, and the summer sunlight streamed brightly into the room. The mice ran to and fro inside the walls of the old garret, and the door leading downstairs blew backward and for- ward on its leather hinges. After a while the mice ceased their clatter, and the only sound in the garret was the creaking of the door. Everything seemed to be watching and waiting for something, and even the dust on the vase wore an air of expectancy; for a stranger was coming to take the vase far away to a strange house in a great city. But the vase could not bear to leave its home in the old garret. There was a step on the stair and the door stopped its creaking to listen. A strong breeze perfumed with honey-suckle blew in through the window, and seemed to bring sweet memories to the vase, for it moved slightly. There was a step outside the door. With a shiver the vase fell forward upon the floor, and when the stranger pushed open the door, there lay before him only the scattered fragments of a beautiful vase. January, i8qs, Baltimore, Md. 81 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN It has always seemed a strange thing to Rebecca that love for the beautiful things in life should have grown up in her as a child; for she was not by nature observant of external things, being wont rather to reflect upon knights and dragons, ogres and chimeras — in short, all the folk and fairy-lore which her mother used to read to her out of fat, gilt-edged volumes, on winter evenings. Her childhood was spent in a great city, except for a few months each year with her grandmother in an old colonial house in the country. These summer days were dreamed of by Rebecca all winter long; not for the joy that is the essence of summer days; merely for favorable opportunities of search- ing the heart of the woods for fairy-rings, — or of tracking imaginary dragons to their lairs under the hay-stacks. Of the house where her grandmother lived she could have told you little. A tiny room she noticed dimly ; — a bed with small colored squares on the counterpane ; — big rooms where mirrors twinkled in the dusk ; — a neatness and an orderliness all about, felt by the child rather than seen ; — and a great garden, where she chased butterflies and ran races with her shadow. Life was passing happily and peacefully enough for Rebecca, when one .day a strange lady came 82 King of the Air to the house for a visit. This lady was tall and dark, with soft eyes, but interesting to Rebecca in only one respect, — as the possessor of an old ac- cordion that uttered marvelously sweet and plaintive strains. From this time the world was changed for Rebecca. Fairies and dragons were forgotten, as in the twilight she sat in a corner of the porch over- looking the garden, drinking in the rare sweetness of the melodies the lady played. Often something in her throat would swell almost to bursting; and once she ran far down the garden, in a passion of tears, in a paroxysm of home-sickness, of longing never felt before for familiar faces and her mother's voice calling her. So always in her mind there came to be linked with a certain sweet plaintive- ness in music, a bitter pang of longing for well- known voices, mingled with an indefinable sense of twilight, and stillness, and warm growing things. From her corner of the piazza Rebecca could see a bit of garden, which she began to notice little by little. At first she saw objects only vaguely — shrubbery, trees, a turn-stile. Later she grew to note the details of the picture, and especially the shapes of things: the straightness of the garden paths; the roundness of the goose-berries beneath the hedge shining in the moonlight ; the fine tracery of slender willow-boughs against the sunset. Combined with this perception of outline came a deep interest in the effects of light and shadow, especially light and shadow in their subtile shiftings. She saw how objects stood out blindingly, just be- fore the setting of the sun; and how at the step 83 King of the Air of night, soft black shadows fell beneath the flowers ; and how, when the moon rose over the garden wall, the fluttering poplar leaves were always shifting from black to silver and back again. So Rebecca grew to love the garden, in its quiet moods: in the late misty afternoons; in the purple twilights; when thin moonlight fell softly down upon the flowers. The accordion-lady was now left to herself, while Rebecca explored far down the glades and thickets where unseen things sang to- gether, to where the yellow pears glittered like gold over the garden-wall. She felt how the whole garden seemed to beat and throb in a blending of many notes ; and gradually above the confused raur- murings she could discern distinct sounds: — cries of katydids and crickets; croakings of bull-frogs; the mournful hooting of a lonely wood-owl. The garden came to have a personality of its own, and seemed to be endowed with pulsing life. The walks and flowers and strong damp scents fell upon her sense like music, as sweet as the old accordion could play. So there were born in the nature of the child two great loves: the love for music, and the love for the world of trees and flowers. And these two be- came so closely intermingled in her mind, that through her life a certain glint of light or fall of shadow would call up a certain plaintive note of the wind ; while distinct images of music, rarely sweet, and winding garden paths, were inextricably woven about the setting of the blood-red sun and the rising of the golden moon. February, igo2, Bryn Maivr, Pa. 84 A SOLILOQUY Never again at dinner shall I drink strong coffee. While my neighbors along the corridor are sleeping peacefully, I am wide awake, and my thoughts flut- ter through my brain like leaves on a windy day. — Over in the corner the cold white moonlight shines through the curtains, falling in a pale square upon the carpet. A tiny ray wanders to the laughing marble head of Pan upon the mantel, and glides along his delicate, merry features; for an instant his lips twitch, his nostrils quiver, his eyes dance in the shifting light and shade. — There is a charm about that mocking face. What fun it must have been to be a faun and to play all day long upon one's pipe, and to sing and dance on the moss in the green woods, and to pick white and blue violets for one's hair; and, at length, all worn out, to throw oneself down in the heart of the wood, and listening to the wood-pecker's tapping, and the deep breathing of the wild hinds behind the thicket, so to fall to dreaming. — 'But, after all, one would soon tire of such a life. One would miss the morning chapel bell, and basket-ball in the golden after- noons, and the excitement of the mail, and the mid- night hours of study. — That reminds me that there 85 King of the Air is a written quiz in philosophy next Monday. Heracleitus! Pythagoras! which is which? And who was the man who thought our organs and members were once all separate and flying through space — eyes without sockets and jaws without teeth? A hideous conception! Sleep, will you never come? — That mouse — hear him! There is no use in his trying to eat a hole in the bread-box. But he is not like Par- menides, and does not know that nothing is real, and that the bread-box and the bread within are merely illusions. Happy mouse! — Now all is quiet, except for the soft tap-tapping against the pane of the ivy-leaves, peering in like little heads. — The face of Pan is white and still; perhaps he is dreaming of his brother fauns leap- ing under the blue skies. — Beautiful, clear skies they are — and the grass, so green — and flowers — songs of birds — ripplings — a singing wind — I really think I am falling — I go I, Bryn Mawr, Pa. 86 A STORM All day long there had come a moaning over the harbor bar; and all day long fisher- folk had hurried through the streets, anxiously scanning the sky. — Now night had fallen, and a stillness hung over the old town like a great bird brooding with out- stretched wings. Faintly up from the sea there rose a kind of quivering sob that died away in a whisper. Again it rose, less faint, like the soft twitter of half- awakened birds. Still again it rose, now grown into a human voice, that wailing broke into a shriek. Down fell the storm, and with it a thick blackness, and the smell of dank sea-weed, and the taste of salt water, and a roaring wind. Rain fell that turned to hail, and dashed upon the stones with a deafening clatter. — Down by the wharves the broad waves seethed high, lashing the big piles in fury, while against the sky the spray rose like smoke. And always the sea-wind sang shrill, through the froth and foam. Then suddenly back into the sea fled the storm, whence it had come; and again stillness fell upon the town, save for the far-off clanging of a fog- bell, and the booming of the waves on the harbor bar. 1901, Bryn Maivr, Pa. 87 A MASKED BALL At first, resting my chin on the rail of the balcony, I seemed to be looking down upon a flower-like mass of red roses, and blue violets, and white lilies, and to be hearing a gentle buzzing like bees in summer. Gradually I was able to distinguish different sounds — snatches of melody, laughter, gentle silken svvish- ings, soft murmurings, chatterings, patterings, clickings of high heels on the polished floor. All at once there floated upwards the gay music of a waltz. The bright blossoms began to move in cir- cles, bending, turning, undulating with the rhythmic measure, glistening and gorgeous where the yellow light fell full upon them, paler and more delicately tinted in the purple shadows of the distance. They quivered, spun, skipped and whirled, a mass of confused forms and mingled colors. For an in- stant the yellow lights glinted upon a pink brocaded petticoat, a wreath of red roses, long yellow hair; then on dancing impish scarlet shapes with horns; or on a big black hat and tiny flitting feet; while above the music of the waltz rose brayings, and crowings, and neighings, and barkings, and screech- ings of whistles, and blarings of trumpets, and King of the Air howlings of cats. From one corner of the room came the faint, pungent odor of Japanese incense that rose in grey curls, and the sweet strong smell of Turkish tobacco. Suddenly the music stopped, and the mass re- solved itself into distinct figures: dainty shepherd- esses skipping along with a scent about them of sweet clover and meadow-grasses; clowns jeering at haughty dowager duchesses sweeping by with high- arched brows; mischievous flower-girls tossing bouquets at quiet brown-hooded monks; pale nuns gazing sad-eyed at little red devils. Then again the music swelled, and again the room was filled with a crowd of quivering, nodding, flower-like forms, here gleaming brightly in the dazzling glare and glitter of the yellow lights, there fading away into the shadows ; while over all there trembled a light rippling of laughter like waterfalls in spring. 1901, Bryn Ma