JAMES K.MOFF1TT 
 
 PAULINE FORE MOFFITT 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 GENERAL LIBRARY, BERKELEY 
 
COPYRIGHT,I920,BYTHB BOOK CLUB of CALIFORNIA 
 
THE VINTAGE FESTIVAL: 
 
 A PLAY PAGEANT & FESTIVITIES 
 CELEBRATING THE VINE IN THE 
 AUTUMN OF EACH YEAR AT ST. 
 HELENA IN THE NAPA VALLEY % 
 BY SARA BARD FIELD $ PRINTED 
 BY JOHN HENRY NASH FOR THE 
 BOOK CLUB OF CALIFORNIA SAN 
 FRANCISCO g MDCCCCXX fc & 8 fc fc 
 
 MOONLIGHT in St. Helena, a cozily small 
 town in the heart of the Napa Valley, 
 that narrow, vine-covered strip of Northern 
 California which SilveradoSquatterslias world- 
 widened. Swaying treetops against the moon. 
 Shadows,shy,mischievous,stealingoutofthe 
 unseen, approaching, retreating, running to 
 cover. Languorous breezes, sylphs, sensuously 
 warm and fragrant, moving with silken ease. 
 A pathway of light down the whole street, 
 mixed of eledric glow and the moon's bor- 
 rowed fire. This street for the time being is 
 the whole world, all that lay on either side 
 
The 'Vintage of it hidden behind Night's draperies. Men. 
 Festival Women. Youths. Maidens. Little boys and 
 girls. Surging throngs; groups on both banks 
 of the river of light. Laughter. Shouts. Whis- 
 perings. Gentle answerings. A whistled tune. 
 From some upper porch the notes of a band. 
 They float out over the kughter, over the 
 shouting, over the confusion of movement. 
 A curious flutter among the people. A sud- 
 den separation and then a quick co-mingling. 
 A fleeting pause in which each soul attunes 
 itself to the harmony, and each foot to the 
 rhythm. Then, like the whirling of leaves 
 at the call of Autumn, the dance is on in 
 the middle of the wide street. It is a loom, 
 human beings the shuttles, weaving broken 
 colors. It is a stream of swift movement, 
 eddies within eddies, yet all flowing with the 
 main current. At the call of trombone and 
 drum these human beings attest their one- 
 ness with all that articulates in rhythm: stars 
 whirling in majestic choruses; waters rolling 
 their repetitions ; winds rising and falling ; 
 
birds singing in staccato notes or long, liquid The Mintage 
 trilling ; inseds flashing their fiery grace notes Festival 
 on the open sheet of Night. Part of all these 
 the people have become. The heaviness of 
 flesh gone, the lightness of spirit remaining. 
 Is it that ancestral memories are tonight incar- 
 nate? Memories, aeons old, when life was lived 
 in gliding waters and in bending branches ? 
 The arching locusts which tent the street are 
 bending tonight as they did when they housed 
 the prophetic forerunners of mankind. They 
 sway with these happy dancers. Movement. 
 Music. Merriment. Beauty for the eye, the 
 ear, for the soul's never-appeased hunger. 
 
 "Can this be America?" 
 
 There came this amazed interrogation to 
 the Dreamer who stood on the edge of the 
 dancing throng. There was no answer. The 
 Dreamer by the side of the Questioner had 
 lost all sense of locality, of dates, of names. 
 Beauty is cosmic. 
 
 "Can this be America? Is love of Beauty 
 part of the instind of this Nation?" 
 
 3 
 
The Vintage Again the Questioner challenged. The 
 Festival Dreamer looked up and down the lighted 
 way. Here were no gaudy streamers ; no heart- 
 breaking plaster arches; no marring artificial 
 designs. To Nature alone had been left the 
 scheme of decoration: a canopy of midnight 
 blue with all the jewels of the House of 
 Heaven flung broadcast upon it; a full moon 
 spreading a shimmering carpet for the feet 
 of the revelers, and the embroidery of the 
 trees. A few dignified electroliers, a perma- 
 nent addition to the town, and the simple 
 costumes of the people were man's only con- 
 tribution. 
 
 Surely it is not America. It is Egypt. A 
 swarthy monarch has returned from the wars 
 to carve on an obelisk the glories of his 
 conquest. Libations are being poured to Ra, 
 to Seb, to Isis and Osiris with music and 
 dancing. 
 
 It is Spain. A court in old Madrid, Plaza 
 de Isabella, All Saints' Feast, the long and 
 regular file of a torch-light procession turn- 
 
 4 
 
ing at the sound of flute and tambourine Thc^Uintagc 
 
 into the serpentine weavings of the dance. Festival 
 
 The splash of that fountain must come from 
 
 the palace gardens; that singing laugh from 
 
 a dainty senorita in velvet bodice and scarlet 
 
 skirt. How warm the night! Is it jasmine we 
 
 smell? 
 
 Or perhaps it is Greece. An oaken grove 
 in her Golden Age. A Bacchanalian feast. 
 Abandon without loss of beauty. Revelry 
 without excess. Yes, yes, Euripides, they have 
 come again"thelong,long dances, on through 
 the dark till the dim stars wane." 
 
 We know the meaning of it all now. It is 
 not real. This is a vast stage which stretches 
 before us and we are tasting that highly con- 
 centrated essence of life in art called a drama. 
 This must be the carnival scene before Shy- 
 lock's house. Hark! Did not a paddle caress 
 the Venetian waters ? Was it Jessica called ? 
 
 The band ceases. "A bully spin"; "Toot 
 her up again";' 'How 's that for-";" You're 
 mynext-";Yes,youdid'';There'snoth- 
 
 5 
 
The 'Vintage ing like " A shower of drifting word-frag- 
 Festival ments dropped on the Dreamer. Lo, it is 
 not Egyptian speech, nor yet the tongue of 
 Aspasia or Don Quixote. Nor is it Jessica 
 answering Lorenzo in summer-soft Italian. 
 It is the familiar American talk. Indeed, this 
 is America. A September night in this twen- 
 tieth century. A vintage festival in the little 
 town of St. Helena that lies in the green Napa 
 Valley of golden California. 
 
 For three days and nights Labor rested in 
 this Valley of the Vine. There is little industry 
 here other than that of vine-raising and wine- 
 making. The grape pickers have ceased to 
 pick; the packers to pack ; the haulers to haul. 
 The old Gray Stone Winery in the town, 
 father of many wineries in the State, and all 
 his busy children in the Valley, have closed 
 their doors against the juicy loads. The cool 
 cellars echo to never a step. The vats stand 
 waiting. The presses idle. Silence broods. 
 
 Gold! Gold! Gold! It poured into the Val- 
 ley for the holiday and centered in this little 
 6 
 
town of St. Helena. Gold of sun by day, of The 'Vintage 
 stars by night. Golden-green vineyards. Gold- Festival 
 en September flowers. Golden leaves for the 
 ground. Golden breezes to lift them skyward. 
 
 Joy! Joy! Joy! It came hurrying into the 
 village in steam and trolley cars; in autos; 
 in carriages; in wagons; on horseback and 
 on foot. It brushed its wings over eyes and 
 lips. It sat singing at every roadway entrance. 
 
 Grapes! Grapes! Grapes! Wagons of them. 
 Tons of them. Mountains of them. Purple. 
 Blue. Yellow. White. Decorating everything, 
 perfuming all the corners. Given like the dew 
 of heaven alike to the just and the unjust. 
 Wonderful bunches such as the Hebrewspies 
 brought "upon a staff between two" from 
 the valley of Eschol. Crowded clusters like a 
 lover's shower of passioned kisses caught and 
 held love-close on the slender stems. Grapes 
 with mouth-filling, satisfying names : Mus- 
 catelle, Bouchet, Sultanina Rosea ; Mataro, 
 Monduse, FlamingTokay. A hundred others. 
 
 Wine ! Wine ! Wine ! Red wine. White wine. 
 
The ^Vintage Amber wine. Glasses of it. Bottles of it. Casks 
 Festival of it. Rivers of it. Bubbling, sparkling, foam- 
 ing, hastening onto the Seaof Time. Crimson 
 wine, crushed of old by white feet treading 
 the wine press, the white feet of Sorrow, for- 
 ever bathed in scarlet Joy. 
 
 It is Morning now. Floods of sunlight lave 
 the earth. The Festival begins its second day 
 of glad play. All the people are anchored on 
 the edge of the street. Eagerness everywhere. 
 Tremulous excitement among the little chil- 
 dren.Thrills of unwonted exhilaration among 
 their elders. At the sound of music all heads 
 turn in one direction. The parade is coming, 
 headed by the local choral society. The rich 
 notes of "Sonntagslied" cause no expressions 
 of ignorant hatred. These people know it is 
 fitting that those voices from the Rhineland 
 be heard, for long ago in this region, before 
 the curse of kaisers and junkers had blinded 
 hearts to the essential oneness of all races, a 
 Krug, son of Germany, his hair dyed in sun- 
 light, married a Vallejo, daughter of Spain, 
 8 
 
with night woven into her tresses. United The^Uintage 
 forever those wide reaching vineyards of the 
 oldest settlers of Napa Valley. United for- 
 ever the traditions that throng the Mediter- 
 ranean and float endlessly upon the Rhine. 
 The song ends, for songs must end. The 
 singers pass on, and singers must ever pass 
 on. The people stretch their necks the better 
 to see the lovely vision which literally floats 
 upon them. The Queen! She, whom the 
 people have elected to reign over them during 
 their play-time. O to be Queen of a play-time 
 realm ! Dressed in Grecian robes, surrounded 
 by maids in like costume, she sits enthroned 
 against white lattice work, overhung with 
 goldenrod. She smiles at her subjects with the 
 regal experience of nineteen summers. The 
 people applaud. They love her. The Dreamer 
 looks at her and also loves her. Why not? 
 She is Helen. She is Hypatia. She is Thais. 
 She is Marguerite. She is Guinevere. She is 
 beautiful woman of all ages and imagination. 
 She is the very last incarnation of Beauty. 
 
 9 
 
The 'Vintage Purple and green of vineyards. Golden and 
 Festival blue of California. These are the colors every- 
 where : in the profusion of grapes that festoon 
 all the floats ; in the costumes of the marchers 
 and of those who ride. If art be the revela- 
 tion of the spirit of that which it portrays, 
 surely this is art. 
 
 Bravo, native sons and daughters, poppies 
 personified, in your yellow garments flutter- 
 ing petal-wide to the breeze. Bravo, little 
 marching maidens with the roses of Damas- 
 cus and Castile blooming on your cheeks and 
 the wine of California spilt on your lips; 
 with butterfly ribbons of gold upon your 
 golden heads. You are more than you seem 
 to your own blithesome hearts or to the cheer- 
 ing crowd. You are the embodiment of a 
 spirit. You are the incarnation of a nameless 
 glory. 
 
 Tramp of feet. Clatter of hoofs. Champing 
 
 at the bits of impatient horses. A symbol 
 
 passes. It is a float in two sections. The first, 
 
 a group of stately trees, a tent in the midst, 
 
 10 
 
skins of animals hung about. An Indian sits The^Uintage 
 
 smoking before the smouldering fire. The Festival 
 
 inscription below reads : "Before the Coming 
 
 of the White Man." The second sedion is 
 
 the same spot cleared. Now sky and soil stand 
 
 frankly face to face. Even rows of the vine 
 
 make the land green. Bunches of blue and 
 
 purple, shadows caught from the misted 
 
 evening mountains and wrought by the sun 
 
 into fruit, show among the leaves. The float 
 
 is named: "After the Coming of the White 
 
 Man." 
 
 An old man sighs and smiles in unison. "I 
 cleared a spot like that," he volunteers, his 
 eyes following the float tenderly, "long be- 
 fore the phylloxera came." 
 
 "The phylloxera! Was it an animal or a 
 tribe?" 
 
 The old man laughs, a rich laugh, steeped 
 in the juices of his vineyard. "Naw, it was 
 an insedt. A pest like them things Moses 
 turned loose on that Pharaoh. Tiny, like a 
 louse. It eats the root of the vine. It was 
 
 ii 
 
The 'Vintage fierce once. It wiped out sixteen thousand 
 Festival acres for us, a lot for this little valley." 
 
 " And the people what did you do ? " The 
 Dreamer was eagerly linking Nature's cruelty 
 with human destiny. 
 
 " Do ! " There was scorn unspeakable in the 
 monosyllable. "Do ! We done what San Fran- 
 cisco done after the fire. We began again. We 
 planted new vineyards. Only we had to ex- 
 periment for a resistant stock. We found 
 it a vine so tough the vermin can 't pene- 
 trate it. It was grown in the Missouri Valley, 
 taken to France for seasoning of that soil and 
 climate and brought back to us. We graft 
 every vine into it. No more phylloxera. Look 
 at that now. Ain't it clever?" 
 
 The Dreamer looked. Uncle Sam in the 
 person of a small wide-eyed lad was joining 
 the hands of two wee lassies whose diminu- 
 tive sweetness symbolized by way of contrast 
 the Atlantic and Pacific made one through 
 the fusion of their waters in the Panama 
 Canal. But the Dreamer was still thinking 
 
 12 
 
of that other union so picturesquely drawn by The ^Vintage 
 the old man's words : the fusion of saps from Festival 
 France and California sap, mysterious dis- 
 tillation of skies and dews and air and sun. In 
 it are the dreams of sleeping Winter, the thrill 
 of waking Spring, the work of fructifying 
 Summer and the fulfilment of ripening Au- 
 tumn. Is not the hope of the world symbol- 
 ized in this vineyard story? Do we not dream 
 of a race of sturdy men and women, born in 
 this land of the co-mingled blood of many 
 people to become a resistant stock to the para- 
 sites who destroy the vine of Universal Hap- 
 piness ? Is it not, as the best of the Past which 
 is the Old World mingles with the best of the 
 Present which is the New Land, that peaceful 
 warriors shall be born to take destruction cap- 
 tive and feed the children of the earth the wine 
 of joy? Gone barren deserts of despair; the 
 blight of poverty; the sere of unsatisfied long- 
 ing ; the mad waste of war; gone blasted buds 
 of hope and aspiration. Only the withered 
 leaves of past agonies left to be scattered and 
 
 13 
 
The 'Vintage destroyed bythe winds of forgetfiilness.Gone 
 Festival forever human phylloxera. The land brave in 
 new vintage of the soul, continually renewed. 
 Even so come, lovely and distant morning. 
 
 The procession passes into ending. The 
 hours wing away. At evening in the little 
 theatre where scenes of the Isles of Greece 
 have been skillfully painted as a background, 
 the work of this people blossoms into an al- 
 legorical drama. The beautiful Queen is on 
 her throne. Ceres, Pomona, and Flora leave 
 their ancestral land beside the ^gean and 
 mingle this night with gods and goddesses 
 of later birth and modern name. The Evil 
 Spirit known as the Knocker whose pleasure 
 is to cast reproach on all divinities of earth, 
 appears with Future and Prosperity caught 
 in her cobweb. She is overcome and driven 
 from the Valley by St. Helena. Future and 
 Prosperity are released and spread their bless- 
 ings broadcast. The goddesses at their bid- 
 ding offer choicest gifts to the Queen. Cli- 
 mate brings Rain and Sun; Flora, the Daisy 
 
and Rose; Ceres, Wheat and Corn; Pomona, The 'Vintage 
 Fruit and Wine. Prosperity makes miracu- Festival 
 lous increase of all things and Future leads in 
 Happiness. All of these parts are aded by 
 the loveliest girls and youths of the Valley. 
 To simple airs they dance the old Greek 
 dances ending in a modern butterfly whirl, 
 all joy, all swift emotion. The lines of the 
 allegory are in lyrical blank verse. At the very 
 last Bacchus appears and the Queen abdi- 
 cates her throne in his favor to the tumult of 
 great revelry. 
 
 What gentle spirit, the Dreamer wonders, 
 has guided this communal expression? Some- 
 one whose roots are in Hellenic beauty but 
 whose flower is of the present. A teacher, the 
 Dreamer is told, a loved instructor of the vil- 
 lage known to the people of the whole Val- 
 ley. His name? Gardner de Veuve. Well, it is 
 plain now. His name tells the story. He is 
 French, born of that race which is the spiri- 
 tual child of Ancient Greece, curious, beauty- 
 loving, shaping thought to forms of beauty 
 
The Mintage and becoming by that divine right arbiter of 
 Festival the world's taste. This Gardner de Veuve, 
 poet and artist, wrote the lines of the allegor- 
 ical drama, superintended the painting of the 
 scenery, helped in the design of costumes 
 and floats, but above all and herein rests his 
 greater claim to honor he had the genius of 
 engaging the people in a whole-souled par- 
 ticipation. He called to all the folk of the 
 region saying : " Come, this is your life speak- 
 ing in pidure and in play. You must all take 
 some part in your Festival." 
 
 So they came from Napa at the one end of 
 the Valley, from Calistoga at the other where 
 the ghost of the loved Stevenson still lingers, 
 and from all the vineyards and tiny villages 
 in between. The men brought the fruit of the 
 field and the produdt of their wineries for the 
 big exhibit; the women, the results of their 
 fireside toil, preserves and jellies and pickles. 
 The children contributed specimens of their 
 school work. Young and old rode in the floats 
 or marched in the parade. On the stage girls 
 16 
 
and boys make virgin efforts while the crowd The ^Vintage 
 in the theatre is adive with applause. The Festival 
 theatre is filled to overflowing. The whole 
 world is there; all of them a people who have 
 befriended the Vine: Italians with associ- 
 ations of Lachryma Christi and Chianti; 
 Portuguese with old Madeira in the blood; 
 French, about whom is wrapped the aroma 
 of Burgundy and in whom is the sparkle of 
 Champagne; Germans who gave the world 
 the delicate wines of the Rhine and Moselle ; 
 Native Sons and Daughters in whose veins 
 is a new-mixed wine and in whose hearts, 
 thank the gods, the heritage of laughter.The 
 spirit of youth is here though wrinkles and 
 white hair are in abundance. Carnival caps 
 adorn each head: Grandmother's silver locks 
 and the Baby's bewitching baldness. Now 
 Bacchus makes a jesting speech. He is round 
 and fat and jolly as Bacchus should be. He 
 bids the people be merry as Bacchus should 
 do. They shout and applaud. 
 To the Dreamer a mist seems to wrap the 
 
The 'Vintage stage, a delicate, rosy mist through which the 
 Festival moving figures become more suggestively 
 lovely. It is made of the crimson light of 
 wine. Wine ! Wine ! Wine ! Age old. Made 
 by Noah, used by Abram and Melchizedek, 
 poured as libations to the gods when Christ 
 was a secret of the far, far future. Wine, 
 drunk by the Epicureans as the tangible touch 
 with the goodness of things seen. Wine, sipped 
 by the Mystics as the symbol of union with 
 things unseen. Wine, making the blood of 
 Christ as it had been the blood of Dionysos. 
 Wine, scarlet ribbon, binding into one great 
 sheaf all races, religions, festivities, literatures, 
 customs all times. 
 
 Suddenly there is in the midst of the rosy 
 clouds a multitude of the departed, "whose 
 music is the gladness of the world." It is the 
 company of the Poets of the Ages. The 
 Dreamer heard the voice of one David sing- 
 ing to the sound of psaltery, "Wine that 
 maketh glad the heart of man"; of Solomon 
 singing to the Shukmite damsel : 
 18 
 
" Let us get up early to the vineyards. The ^Vintage 
 
 Let us see whether the vine hath budded r . / 
 
 , , , rcstwai 
 
 And its blossom be open 
 
 And the pomegranate be in flower. 
 
 There will I give thee my love." 
 
 An unnamed voice, hoary with age from 
 the Indus sang: 
 
 "Thou Indra oft hast quaffed 
 With keen delight our Soma draught. 
 All gods the luscious Soma love, 
 But thou all other gods above." 
 
 Arabia, Egypt, Assyria, and the ancient 
 peoples behind the veil of history lent voices 
 to the choiring and there were strains from 
 Anacreon, Meleager, Horace, Omar, Villon, 
 Shakespeare, Milton, Heine, Burns, Keats, 
 and many nameless ones, some mere echoes 
 from distant time. 
 
 Not in vain do they gather here this night, 
 saluters, poetic, of the storied wine. A thing, 
 prophetic, is transpiring, a thing to rejoice all 
 the vineyard gods : Soma, Dionysos, Silenus, 
 Bacchus. America, crowned with shekels, 
 girded with steel, shod with iron, whose face 
 
 19 
 
The 'Vintage is scarred with poverty, whose breath is black 
 Festival smoke, whose voice is steam, here steps forth 
 in a new guise. A garland of grapes is about 
 her brow; a crimson girdle on her loins, her 
 feet golden sandaled, her face smiling to the 
 stars, and her breath the perfume of the 
 "henna flowers in the vineyards of Engedi." 
 Her voice is laughter and song. For a single 
 moment she takes her place with every nation 
 which has dropped a star of beauty on the 
 arch of time. She is bound to them by the 
 crimson ribbon. Well may the invisible host 
 sing and the gods be glad. Well may these 
 people eat the fruit of pleasure and drink the 
 wine of gladness. An Industry, permeated 
 with enough of beauty and romance to be- 
 come articulate in poetry, song, and dancing, 
 is this hour speaking. An Industry is laugh- 
 ing. Think of it ! An Industry is at play. 
 What other form of Labor laughs? Does 
 steel-manufadure, carried on in the heat of 
 hell where men "sweating like the damned 
 run to and fro"? Does mining, that work 
 20 
 
with sun and stars sifted out and Death hov- The 'Vintage 
 ering at the elbow in the gloom? Could any Festival 
 Labor laugh which is done in the reproach of 
 a fadory or the disgrace of a sweat shop? 
 Have even the growing of the golden wheat 
 or the fluffy cotton or the industry of the fra- 
 grant orchards spoken in music and pageant, 
 in merriment and poetry ? Could any one of 
 these evoke an expression of such universal 
 beauty, make thought walk back over Time's 
 loveliest vistas to the harpings of Callicles, 
 the flutmgs of Theocritus, or the tinkling of 
 Salome's tambourine? 
 
 What is lacking in all these others that the 
 Industry of the Vine possesses in such high 
 degree ? Romance ! Romance, pressed out 
 with the first grapes, spilled into the first pair 
 of ruddy lips. Traditions. Legends. Religious 
 rites. Courtly ceremonies. Humble hospital- 
 ities. Festal follies. Nuptial feasts. Myriad 
 libations. Launching of ships. Pledgings to 
 kings, to knights, to fair ladies, to elusive 
 Fortune and inconstant Love. Poetry. Song. 
 
 21 
 
The 'Vintage A million hopes. Ten million smiles. Twice 
 Festival ten million heart throbs. These live again in 
 every vineyard in Eschol, in Burgundy, in 
 Italy, in Greece, in California. These mystic 
 and precious things, the heritage of human- 
 ity, are stored in every vat, made captive in 
 every bottle, to burst forth again with the out- 
 flow into the crystal glass, to be poured again 
 into man's veins, to become the language his 
 dumb soul cannot utter, the universal symbol 
 for his unspoken emotions; to live as long as 
 the sun kisses the earth's bosom and the dews 
 bathe it. 
 
 It is this which the humblest of the people 
 have felt in their vineyards and in their winer- 
 ies. It is this which they vaguely know makes 
 this festival possible. It is this which they 
 sense is being said in these three days and 
 nights of lovely revelry. It is this which makes 
 Beauty walk boldly through their midst. 
 
 Somewhere, now, a woman's clear soprano 
 is added to the invisible choiring, linking the 
 song of the past with that of the now: 
 22 
 
O wreathed vine, how long have you been growing? The ^intdVC 
 O crimson stream, how long have you been flowing? p . , 
 
 Before the first red lips knew thirst 
 When infant winds were blowing. 
 
 O magic juice within the purple chalice, 
 Whence do you come to slay our care and malice? 
 
 I come, I run from Dew, from Sun, 
 My gold and azure palace. 
 
 never touched by any breath of sadness, 
 What is the mixture of your godly madness? 
 
 Hope, Laughter, Joy without alloy; 
 
 1 am all liquid gladness. 
 
 The song ends in a triumphant laughing 
 assertion. The mists recede. The vision fades. 
 Around the Dreamer there is the insistent 
 stir of the people streaming out to dance again 
 under the moon. The stars light up the in- 
 cense of new dreams. Lovers tell each other 
 secrets older than wine. Mothers watch their 
 sons choose the fairest partners and their 
 daughters lure the youths to the choice. Fath- 
 ers talk in groups of the propitious weather 
 and the goodly crops. Lo, they too are pour- 
 ing libations to the gods. Music. Merriment. 
 Memories. Light. Laughter. Love. Wine and 
 
 23 
 
The 'Vintage Witchery. Over all is the voice of one who 
 Festival knew life deeply singing: 
 
 "Ah, fill the cup: -what boots it to repeat 
 How Time is slipping underneath our Feet : 
 Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday, 
 Why fret about them if To-day be sweet ! " 
 
OP THIS BOOK THERE HAVE BEEN PRINTED 500 COPIES