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LEGENDS 

AMY  LOWELL 


SI 


LEGENDS 


Books  by  AMY  LOWELL 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

! 

Poetry 

LEGENDS 

PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 
CAN  GRANDE'S  CASTLE 
MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GHOSTS 

SWORD  BLADES  AND  POPPY  SEED 
A  DOME  OF  MANY-COLOURED  GLASS 

Prose 

TENDENCIES  IN  MODERN  AMERICAN  POETRY 

six  FRENCH  POETS:  STUDIES  IN  CONTEMPO- 
RARY LITERATURE 


LEGENDS 


BY 

AMY  LOWELL 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

prejtf  Cambridge 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  I92J,  BY  AMY  LOWELL 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


P5 


PREFACE 

A  LEGEND  is  something  which  nobody  has 
written  and  everybody  has  written,  and  which 
anybody  is  at  liberty  to  rewrite.  It  may  be 
altered,  it  may  be  viewed  from  any  angle,  it  may 
assume  what  dress  the  author  pleases,  yet  it  re- 
mains essentially  the  same  because  it  is  attached 
to  the  very  fibres  of  the  heart  of  man.  Civili- 
zation is  the  study  of  man  about  himself,  his 
powers,  limitations,  and  endurances;  it  is  the 
slowly  acquired  knowledge  of  how  he  can  best 
exist  in  company  with  his  fellows  on  the  planet 
called  Earth.  As  man  learns,  he  becomes  con- 
scious, first  of  an  immense  curiosity,  and  then  of 
a  measure  of  understanding,  and,  immediately 
after,  of  a  desire  to  express  both;  and  the  simplest 
form  of  expression  is  by  means  of  the  tale  or 
(hateful  word!)  allegory.  Hence  legends;  they 


Vi  PREFACE 

are  bits  of  fact,  or  guesses  at  fact,  pressed  into 
the  form  of  a  story  and  flung  out  into  the  world 
as  markers  of  how  much  ground  has  been  trav- 
elled. If  science  be  proven  truth  (and  I  believe 
it  is),  legends  might  be  described  as  speculative 
or  apprehended  truth.  When  legends  deal  with 
natural  phenomena,  they  may  be  —  in  fact,  in 
the  end,  always  are  —  superseded  by  science, 
but  they  retain  the  same  charm  for  races  which 
fairy-stories  have  for  individuals,  we  love  them 
because  we  once  loved  them.  When  they  deal 
with  humanity,  they  are  extremely  apt  to  strike 
us  as  sharply  as  they  did  our  forbears.  Man  is  a 
strangely  alike  animal,  as  the  prevalence  of  cer- 
tain legends  among  a  wide  variety  of  peoples 
abundantly  proves. 

This  book,  then,  is  a  book  of  legends.  The 
stories  in  it  are  neither  new,  nor  old;  they  are 
perennial,  this  is  my  version,  as  the  next  man 
will  have  his  and  so  on  forever.  Some  I  have  left 
more  or  less  in  the  settings  in  which  I  found  them, 


PREFACE  Vll 

to  others  I  have  given  a  new  environment,  some 
I  have  never  either  read  or  heard,  they  come  out 
of  an  atavistic  memory,  I  suppose.  Stories,  as 
such,  they  emphatically  are  not,  since  all  have 
that  curious  substratum  of  reality,  speculative 
or  apprehended,  of  which  I  have  spoken.  But 
searchers  for  exact  folk-lore  need  not  look  to  me, 
there  is  nothing  exact  to  be  found  here.  I  have 
changed,  added,  subtracted,  jumbled  several  to- 
gether at  will,  left  out  portions;  in  short,  made 
them  over  to  suit  my  particular  vision.  A  poet 
is  the  most  contradictory  creature  imaginable, 
he  respects  nothing  and  reveres  everything,  but 
what  he  loves  he  makes  his  own.  And  this  then 
is  just  the  touchstone  of  the  true  legend,  it  can 
be  made  over  in  any  image,  but  always  remains 
itself. 

As  for  the  original  impulse,  in  some  cases  I 
have  forgotten  it,  in  others  I  do  not  know  what 
it  was.  For  instance,  I  remember  that  "A 
Legend  of  Porcelain"  was  composed  of  three 


Vlll  PREFACE 

distinct  legends,  but  I  do  not  know  where  I  found 
them,  probably  in  Dr.  Stephen  W.  Bushell's 
"Description  of  Chinese  Pottery  and  Porcelain" 
or  in  the  "Histoire  et  Fabrication  de  la  Porce- 
laine  Chinoise"  by  M.  Stanislas  Julien,  the 
volume  which  gave  Lafcadio  Hearn  the  material 
of  his  "Tale  of  the  Porcelain  God."  Both  these 
books  consist  principally  of  translations  of  Chi- 
nese treatises,  Julien's  of  the  "  King-te-tchin 
T'ao  Lu,"  or  "History  of  the  King-te-tchin 
Porcelains,"  the  original  work  was  published  in 
1815;  BushelFs  of  the  "T'ao  Shuo"  or  "De- 
scription of  Pottery,"  by  Chu  Yen,  an  eight- 
eenth century  official,  who  held  an  appointment 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Governor  of  the 
Province  of  Kiangsi.  King-te-tchin,  the  city  in 
which  the  Imperial  porcelain  factories  were  situ- 
ated, was  in  this  province,  and  Chu  Yen  made 
a  personal  investigation  of  the  processes  of  the 
manufacture  of  porcelain  during  his  residence 
there.  His  book  was  published  in  1774.  It  is  a 


PREFACE  IX 

most  fascinating  volume,  and  as  English  lends 
itself  more  easily  to  the  translation  of  Chinese 
than  does  French,  the  account  of  the  various 
kinds  of  porcelain  and  its  trade  names  as  ren- 
dered by  Dr.  Bushell  keeps  the  poetic  flavour  of 
the  originals  better  than  the  same  descriptions 
in  M.  Julien's  work.  Chu  Yen  invokes  the  aid  of 
both  poets  and  philosophers  to  make  his  book 
vivid  and  readable.  One  proverb  which  he  men- 
tions is  so  pertinent  to  this  preface  that  I  cannot 
resist  quoting  it,  as  a  warning  and  as  a  delight: 
"Those  who  plant  the  polygonium  in  rows,  put 
ornamental  borders  on  earthenware  bowls  and 
dishes,  weigh  the  firewood  before  burning  it,  and 
count  the  grains  of  rice  before  cooking  it,  are  fit 
only  to  attend  to  petty  things,  not  to  have  the 
management  of  large  affairs."  Mindful  then  of 
this  most  wise  saying,  I  will  not  enumerate  other 
books  on  China  which  I  have  read.  Indeed, 
I  could  not,  they  are  so  many. 

"Confided   by  a  Yucca  to  a  Passion- Vine " 


X  PREFACE 

sprang  from  a  sentence  embedded  somewhere  in 
Garcilasso  de  la  Vega's  account  of  his  ancestors, 
the  Incas,  the  version  which  appeared  in  the 
1625  edition  of  "Purchas  His  Pilgrims." 

"Many  Swans"  is  based  on  a  Kathlemet  text 
translated  by  Dr.  Franz  Boas,  the  original  of 
which  may  be  found  in  one  of  the  Bulletins  of 
the  Bureau  of  Archaeology  and  Ethnology  of 
the  Smithsonian  Institution.  The  main  theme 
and  many  of  the  episodes  of  this  legend  I  have 
retained,  while  at  the  same  time  augmenting  and 
freely  departing  from  it  in  order  to  gain  a  wider 
symbolism.  The  incident  of  the  ladder  of  arrows 
appears  in  many  Indian  stories,  notably  in  a 
Tlingit  myth  recorded  by  Mr.  John  Reed  Swan- 
ton,  published  in  another  bulletin  of  the  same 
bureau.  Four  of  the  songs  in  the  poem  are  real 
Indian  songs,  or  parts  of  them,  the  words  of 
which  are  quoted  in  a  paper,  "The  Kwakiutl 
Indians,"  by  Dr.  Boas  in  a  Report  of  the  United 
States  National  Museum;  another  is  an  adapta- 


PREFACE  XI 

tion  of  a  free  translation  made  many  years  ago 
by  Dr.  Washington  Matthews.  The  rest  of  the 
songs  are  merely  in  the  Indian  idiom.  In  the  in- 
terest of  atmospheric  truth,  I  have  felt  at  liberty 
to  make  occasional  use  of  Indian  expressions  and 
turns  of  thought,  and  I  here  wish  to  express  my 
gratitude  to  that  small  body  of  indefatigable 
workers  (and  especially  to  Dr.  Franz  Boas,  Miss 
Frances  Densmore,  and  Mr.  John  Reed  Swanton) 
in  the  field  of  Indian  folk-lore  and  tradition, 
whose  careful  and  exact  translations  of  Indian 
texts  have  made  them  accessible  to  those  who, 
like  myself,  have  not  the  Indian  tongues.  1 
feel  also  the  liveliest  sense  of  obligation  to  Mr. 
George  Bird  Grinnell,  whose  history  of  Indian 
wars  taken  down  from  the  mouths  of  the 
chiefs  who  participated  in  them,  "  The  Fighting 
Cheyennes,"  gave  me  my  first  insight  into  Indian 
psychology.  Two  slight  incidents  in  my  poem 
are  from  these  historical  records. 

To  the  great  army  of  Indian  travellers,  from 


xii  PREFACE 

the  trappers  and  explorers  of  the  early  years  to 
our  contemporaries,  I  am  deeply  indebted,  since 
they  have  made  Indians  and  the  Indian  country 
not  only  real  to  me,  but  familiar.  The  "Funeral 
Song  for  the  Indian  Chief  Blackbird"  I  owe  to 
a  legend,  or  rather  fact,  recorded  in  Catlin's 
"North  American  Indians."  I  say  "fact"  ad- 
visedly, for  Catlin  says  that  he  looked  into  a 
gopher  hole  in  the  burial  mound  and  distinctly 
saw  the  bones  of  the  horse's  skull.  Among  stu- 
dents of  Indian  lore,  I  must  not  omit  to  mention 
Mr.  J.  Walter  Fewkes,  whose  papers  on  the  Hopi 
Indians,  and  whose  account  of  the  Snake  Dance 
particularly,  have  been  invaluable. 

The  inspiration  for  "  The  Ring  and  the  Castle '  * 
is  lost  irrevocably,  I  have  no  idea  from  what  it 
arose,  and  the  same  is  true  of  "Gavotte  in  D 
Minor." 

The  theme  of  "Dried  Marjoram"  has  been 
a  favourite  one  with  poets  since  time  was.  I 
stumbled  across  it  in  a  history,  or  guide-book,  of 


PREFACE  Xlll 

Hampshire  County,  England,  but  I  need  have 
gone  no  farther  than  the  Bible  and  the  story  of 
Rizpah. 

"The  Statue  in  the  Garden"  is  another  old 
tale,  which  goes  back  to  the  later  Romans  and 
probably  beyond.  My  initial  introduction  to  it 
came  from  Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy." 

"Before  the  Storm"  was  an  abiding  fear  of  my 
childhood.  How  often  have  I  driven  through  the 
hush  which  precedes  a  thunderstorm,  all  of  a 
tremble  lest  I  should  meet  the  old  man  and  his 
child  in  the  yellow-wheeled  chaise.  Yet  I  believe 
that  the  legend  was  in  this  case  the  product  of 
a  single  brain,  that  of  the  now  almost  forgotten 
writer,  William  Austin,  who  published  a  tale  on 
the  subject  in  1824.  A  true  legend  it  was  to  me, 
however,  long  before  I  knew  its  origin,  and  as 
such  I  have  treated  it,  with  the  result  that  my 
version  is  quite  unlike  Mr.  Austin's. 

"Four  Sides  to  a  House"  refers  to  a  supersti- 
tion common  to  many  countries.  Its  existence 


XIV  PREFACE 

in  New  England  is  not  so  well  known,  but  there 
is  evidence  to  prove  it. 

I  sincerely  hope  that  these  Tales  of  Peoples 
which  I  have  loved  and  written  down  may  inter- 
est others  as  much  as  they  have  me.  Indeed,  how 
can  it  be  otherwise,  since  they  are  Legends,  with 
a  long  past  and,  I  believe,  a  longer  future  at  the 
hands  of  coming  generations.  That  inaccuracies 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  student  of  folk-lore 
have  crept  into  the  poems,  I  have  no  doubt,  nor 
does  it  make  any  difference  to  me.  The  truth  of 
poetry  is  imaginative,  not  literal,  and  it  is  as  a 
poet  that  I  have  conceived  and  written  my  book. 

AMY  LOWELL 

BROOKLINE,  MASS. 
MARCH  1,  1921. 


CONTENTS 

MEMORANDUM  CONFIDED  BY  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION- 
VINE.  Peru 3 

A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN.  China        ....      34 
MANY  SWANS.  North  America 81 

FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  BLACKBIRD. 
North  America 139 

WITCH-WOMAN.   Yucatan 154 

THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE.  Europe  .        .        .164 

GAVOTTE  IN  D  MINOR.  Europe  .        .        .        .172 

THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN.  Europe         .        .        .176 

DRIED  MARJORAM.  England 220 

BEFORE  THE  STORM.  New  England      ....    238 
FOUR  SIDES  TO  A  HOUSE.  New  England      .        .        .    253 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  The  North  American  Review,  The 
Atlantic,  The  Bookman,  and  The  Dial  for  their  courteous  permission  to 
reprint  certain  of  these  poems  which  have  been  copyrighted  by  them. 

Acknowledgement  should  also  be  made  to  the  editors  of  the  antholo- 
gies The  Masque  of  Poets  and  A  Miscellany  of  American  Poetry  for  the 
inclusion  of  two  poems  which  were  published  in  these  collections. 


LEGENDS 


MEMORANDUM  CONFIDED  BY  A 
YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE 


THE  Turkey-buzzard  was  chatting  with  the  Condor 

High  up  in  the  White  Cordillera. 

"Surely  our  friend  the  fox  is  mad,"  said  he. 

"He  chases  birds  no  more  and  his  tail  trails  languidly 

Behind  him  in  the  dust. 

Why,  he  got  it  full  of  cactus-spines  one  day, 

Pawing  over  a  plant  that  stood  in  his  way. 

All  the  bees  are  buzzing  about  it. 

Consider  a  fox  who  passes  by  the  great  hives  of  sharp, 

black  honey 

And  looks  at  them  no  more  than  a  heron  would." 
"Odd,"  said  the  Condor.  "Remarkably  peculiar." 
And  he  flapped  his  wings  and  flew  away  to  the 

porcelain  peaks  of  the  distant  Sierra. 


4  LEGENDS 

So  the  Turkey-buzzard  thought  no  more  of  the  matte 
But  busied  himself  with  the  carcass  of  a  dead  llama 

And  the  sun  boomed  onward  over  the  ice-peaks: 

Hot  — Hot  — Hotter! 

And  the  sun  dropped  behind  the  snow-peaks, 

And  the  cool  of  shadow  was  so  delicious  that  all  tl 

squirrels  and  rabbits  and  peccaries  and  lizan 
Flirted  their  tails; 
And  the  flamingoes  in  Lake  Titicaca  puffed  out  the 

gizzards, 
And  waded  into  the  pink  water  reflected  from  tl 

carmine- tinted  mountain  summits; 
And  the  parrots  chattered  and  flashed  in  the  mimosa; 
And  the  eagles  dove  like  plummets 
Upon  the  unfortunate  alpacas. 
The  animals  were  enjoying  themselves  in  the  rose-re 

light  that  lingers 
Flung  from  the  blood-orchid  tips  of  the  mountains 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION- VINE 

Before  the  night  mists  slide  over  the  foothills. 
Ah!  But  you  could  see  them  in  the  valleys, 
Floating  and  circling  like  dead  men's  fingers 
Combing  living  hair. 

In  a  place  of  bright  quartz  rocks, 

Sits  a  small  red  fox. 

He  is  half  in  the  shade  of  a  cactus-bush. 

The  birds  still  fly,  but  there  is  a  hush 

And  a  sifting  of  purple  through  the  air : 

Blue  dims  rose, 

The  evening  is  fair. 

Why  is  the  red  fox  waiting  there, 

With  his  sniffing  nose, 

And  his  stiffened  pose, 

And  his  narrow  eyelids  which  never  close? 

"Fox  — fox  — 

Against  the  rocks. 

Are  you  rooted  there  till  the  equinox?" 


6  LEGENDS 

So  the  alcamarines  flocking  home  in  the  afterglow 
Mock  the  poor  fox,  but  he  does  n't  seem  to  know. 
He  sits  on  his  haunches,  staring  high 
Into  the  soft,  fruit-green  evening  sky. 

A  yellow  rose  blooms  in  the  glow, 

Thin  fox  frosted  by  silver  snow, 

Mica-crystals  flecking  over  indigo. 

And  a  cactus-tree 

Grating  its  thorn-leaves  huskily. 

Moan  of  wind  and  the  crackles  of  an  empty  place 

At  the  coming  of  night. 

The  fox  is  alone. 

Then  in  the  far  green  heavens  the  lady  rises,  tall  anc 

white. 

August  and  dazzling 
In  the  drooping  light, 
She  shimmers,  jubilantly  bright. 
Breasts  and  thighs  tuned  to  liquid  air, 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  7 

Loveliness  set  naked  in  a  firmament. 

He  sees  the  slim,  smooth  arms, 

And  the  virgin  waist  bending  with  delicate  movement. 

Her  body  sways  as  a  flower  stem 

Caught  in  a  gust; 

And  her  hair  is  thrust 

Towards  him,  he  can  see  the  gem 

Which  binds  it  loosely.  His  eyes  are  greedy 

Of  the  curving  undulations  and  straight  fall 

Following  down  from  head  to  foot,  and  all 

Cool  and  unclouded,  touching  him  almost. 

With  hot  tongue  he  pants  upon  the  splendour 

Of  this  marble  beauty,  imperious  and  unashamed 

In  her  extreme  of  excellence. 

Then  he  weeps, 

Weeps  in  little  yelping  barks  for  the  cold  beautiful 

body 

Of  the  inaccessible  moon. 
The  villagers  wake  in  a  startled  fright 


8  LEGENDS 

And  tell  each  other:  "A  fox  bays  the  moon  to-night." 

The  moon  lives  in  Cuzco  — 
It  was  the  Partridge  who  told  him  so  — 
In  a  temple  builded  of  jointured  stone 
On  an  emerald-studded,  silver  throne. 
So  the  fox  set  out  for  Cuzco  with  his  tail  held  high  to 
keep  it  out  of  the  dust. 

Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp! 

What  is  that  noise  approaching  him? 

Quick,  behind  a  stone, 

And  he  watches  them  come, 

The  soldiers  of  the  great  Inca. 

Copper  spear-heads  running  like  a  river  of  gold  along 

the  road. 

Helmets  of  tiger-skins,  coats  of  glittering  feathers, 
A  ripple  of  colours  from  one  edge  of  the  way  to  the  other, 
Feet  of  men  cadenced  to  the  swing  of  weapons. 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  9 

So  many  bows,  and  arrows,  and  slings,  and  darts,  and 
lances, 

A  twinkling  rhythm  of  reflections  to  which  the  army 
advances, 

And  a  rainbow  banner  flickering  colours  to  the  slipping 
of  the  wind. 

They  pass  as  water  passes  and  the  fox  is  left  behind. 

"Those  men  come  from  Cuzco,"  thought  the  fox, 

And  his  heart  was  like  lead  in  his  stomach  for  wonder- 
ing if  they  knew  the  moon. 

Then  he  trotted  on  again  with  his  tail  held  high  to 
keep  it  out  of  the  dust. 

Pat!  Pat!  Pat! 

What  is  that  sound  behind  him? 

He  leaps  into  a  bush  of  tufted  acacia  just  in  time. 

It  is  a  post-runner,  doing  his  stint  of  five  miles, 

Carrying  merchandise  from  the  coast. 

And  the  fox's  mouth  waters  as  he  smells  fish : 


10  LEGENDS 

Bobos,  shads,  sardines, 

All  fading  in  a  little  osier  basket, 

Faint  colours  whispering  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  flag. 

But  the  runner  must  not  lag, 

These  fish  are  for  the  Inca's  table. 

A  flash  of  feet  against  the  heart-shaped  flowers  of  the 

yolosuchil 

And  the  jarred  leaves  settle  and  are  still. 
The  fox  creeps  out  and  resumes  his  journey,  with  his 

tail  held  high  to  keep  it  out  of  the  dust. 

Over  bush  and  bramble  and  prick  and  thorn 
Goes  the  fox,  till  his  feet  are  torn, 
And  his  eyes  are  weary  with  keeping  the  trail 
Through  ashen  wind  and  clattering  hail, 
With  the  hot,  round  sun  lying  flat  on  his  head, 
And  morning  crushing  its  weight  of  lead 
On  scores  of  trumpet- vines  tangled  and  dead. 
Across  swung  bridges  of  plaited  reeds 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  11 

In  a  whorl  of  foaming,  bursting  beads 

Of  river  mist,  where  a  canon  makes  a  fall 

Of  thousands  of  feet  in  a  sheer  rock  wall. 

Pomegranates  toss  him  scarlet  petals, 

The  little  covetous  claws  of  nettles 

Catch  at  his  fur,  and  a  sudden  gloom 

Blocks  his  path  on  a  drip  of  bloom. 

Over  prick  and  thorn  and  bush  and  bramble; 

Up  pointed  boulders  with  a  slip  and  scramble, 

Past  geese  with  flattened,  blue-green  wings 

Pulling  the  ichu  grass  which  springs 

In  narrow  fissures  where  nothing  else  clings; 

Through  terraced  fields  of  bright-tongued  maize 

Licking  the  hills  to  a  golden  blaze; 

Under  clustered  bananas  and  scented  oaks; 

Across  dry,  high  plains  where  the  yucca  chokes. 

Dawns  explode  in  bleeding  lights 

On  the  snow-still  uplands  of  ghastly  heights 

Where  long-dead  bodies  stare  through  their  hair 


12  LEGENDS 

Crooking  their  brittle  legs  and  bare 
Ice-tortured  arms,  and  the  sun  at  noon 
Is  a  glassy  shell  of  dull  maroon. 
Only  at  night  he  watches  the  moon 
Stepping  along  the  smooth,  pale  sky 
In  a  silver  florescence.  By  and  by 
The  red  fox  reaches  the  gates  of  Cuzco, 
But  his  tail  is  very  much  bedraggled  for  he  can  no 
longer  hold  it  up  out  of  the  dust. 

Morning  playing  dimly  in  the  passion-vines 

Hanging  over  the  gates  of  Cuzco. 

Morning  picking  out  a  purple  flower  — 

Another  —  another  — 

Cascading  down  the  walls  of  Cuzco. 

Scarlet-flashing,  uprose  the  sun 

With  one  deep  bell-note  of  a  copper-crashed  gong. 

Glory  of  rose-mist  over  the  Sierra, 

Glory  of  crimson  on  the  tinted  turrets 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  13 

Of  the  wide  old  fort  under  the  high  cliff. 

Glory  of  vermilion  dripping  from  the  windows, 

Glory  of  saffron  streaking  all  the  shadows, 

House  fronts  glaring  in  fresh  young  light, 

Gold  over  Cuzco! 

Gold! 

Gold! 

In  an  orchid  flow, 

Where  the  Temple  of  Pachacamac  rose  like  a  bell 

Shining  on  the  city, 

With  the  clear  sweet  swell  of  an  open  sunrise  gong. 

White  and  carnation, 

White  and  carnation, 

The  sun's  great  gnomon, 

Measuring  its  shadow  on  the  long  sharp  gold  polished 

grass. 

Who  pass  here 
In  an  early  year? 
Lightning  and  Thunder, 


14  LEGENDS 

Servants  of  the  Sun. 

Lord  of  the  rainbow's  white  and  purple, 

Blue  and  carnation, 

All  awhirl  to  a  curl  of  gold. 

He  who  comes  from  the  land  of  monkeys, 

He  who  comes  from  the  flying-fishes  playing  games 

with  rainbow  dolphins, 
Pause  — 

Here  before  the  gates  of  gold. 
Chamfered  crown  about  the  Temple, 
Sparkling  points  and  twisted  spirals, 
All  of  Gold. 
Lemon-tinted  Gold, 
Red-washed  fire  Gold, 
Gold,  the  planking, 
Gold,  the  roof-tree, 

Gold  the  burnished  doors  and  porches, 
And  the  chairs  of  the  dead  Incas : 
One  long  row  of  stately  bodies 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION- VINE  15 

Sitting  dead  in  all  the  dazzle 

Glittering  with  bright  green  emeralds. 

White-haired  Incas, 

Hoary  Incas, 

Black  and  shiny-haired  young  Incas, 

All  dead  Incas; 

With  their  hands  crossed  on  their  breasts 

And  their  eyes  cast  down,  they  wait  there. 

Terrible  and  full-fleshed  Incas. 

Blaze  of  fire,  burning,  glaring, 

Bright,  too  bright! 

Ah-h-h! 

The  Sun! 

Up  through  the  wide-open  Eastern  portal. 

Broken,  sharpened  on  a  thousand  plates  of  gold, 

It  falls, 

Splintered  into  prisms  on  the  rainbow  walls. 

The  Sun  steps  into  his  house. 

Hush!  It  is  the  PRESENCE ! 


16  LEGENDS 

Face  of  Pachacamac, 

Wreathed  in  burnished  flames  of  swift  fire. 
Then  on  the  wind  of  a  thousand  voices  rises  the  hymn : 
"Pachacamac 

World's  Creator, 

Mountain-mover, 

Heaven-dwelling. 

We  beseech  thee 

Send  thy  showers, 

Warm  our  meadows, 

Bless  the  seed-ears. 

Man  and  woman, 

Beast  and  lizard, 

Feathered  people, 

Whales  and  fishes, 

All  implore  thee, 

Clement  God-head, 

To  make  fruitful 

These  thy  creatures. 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  17 

String  their  sinews 
Ripe  for  power, 
Quicken  wombs  and 
Eggs  and  rootlets. 
Be  the  Father, 
The  Begetter. 
Pour  upon  us, 
Lord  of  all  things, 
Of  thy  bounty, 
Of  thy  fulness. 
So  we  praise  thee, 
Swelling  Apple, 
Gourd  of  Promise, 
Mighty  Melon, 
Seed-encaser, 
Sun  and  Spirit, 
Lord  of  Morning, 
Blood  of  Mercy, 
Pachacamac!" 


18  LEGENDS 

And  the  great  tide  of  men's  voices  echoed  and  curved 

upon  the  plates  of  gold 
Lining  the  Temple 

So  that  it  became  a  wide  horn  of  melody, 
And  out  of  it  burst  the  hymn  like  a  red-streaked  lily 

thundering  to  the  morning. 
Men's  voices  singing  the  hymn  of  ripening  seed, 
Men's  voices  raised  in  a  phallic  chorus  to  the  rising 

sun  .  .  . 

Virgin  of  the  Sun, 
Pale  Virgin, 
Through  the  twisting  vine-leaves  it  comes  to  you 

broken  and  shivering. 
What  are  you,  Virgin? 
And  who  is  this  all-wise  God 
That  shuts  you  in  a  hall  of  stone? 
Cleft  asunder, 
A  white  pomegranate  with  no  seeds, 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  19 

A  peascod  dropped  on  a  foot-path  before  its  peas  are 

blown. 

Pale  Virgin,  go  about  your  baking. 
For  the  shadows  shorten  and  at  noon  the  oven  will  be 

heated. 

Tired  little  fox  outside  the  fence, 

Lie  down  in  the  shade  of  the  wall, 

For  indeed  the  sun  has  done  you  an  injury. 

Now  the  East  wind,  called  Brisa,  blew  against  the 

clouds; 

And  the  sun  rushed  up  the  sky; 
And  at  noon  the  shadow  of  the  great  gnomon  was  not, 
No  single  dark  patch  lay  anywhere  about  its  foot, 
For  the  God  sat  with  all  his  light  upon  the  column. 
The  fox  awoke,  and  sought  shelter  from  the  heat. 
Creeping,  he  came  to  a  garden  of  five  fountains, 
Set  in  green  plots,  and  plots  of  silver. 


20  LEGENDS 

For  there  he  saw,  mixed,  the  fruits  of  the  sun: 

Apples,  quinces,  loquats,  and  chirimoyas, 

All  just  after  flowering  with  their  fruit-balls  perfectly 

formed  but  each  smaller  than  a  pepper-grain, 
And  the  fruits  of  man : 
Oranges,  melons,  cocoanuts  and  breadfruit, 
Fashioned  of  gold  and  silver, 
Amazing  with  brightness. 
Indian  corn  sprouted  from  the  earth  on  thin  stalks  of 

gold 
Which  rattled   against    one  another   with  a  sweet 

clashing, 
The    golden    ears    escaping    smartly   out    of   broad 

recurved  leaves  of  silver, 
And  silver  tassels  floated  in  a  twinkle  of  whiteness 

from  their  glittering  tops. 
Golden  snails  clung  to  silver  palm-branches, 
Turquoise  butterflies  flew  hither  and  thither 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  21 

And  one  alone  remained  poised;  it  was  of  polished 

stone. 
The  fox  gaped  for  wonder  and  his  tail  lay  prone  on  a 

silver  lizard, 

But  this  he  never  noticed. 
Then  across  the  sounds  of  leaves  blowing 
And  metals  tapping, 
Came  music; 

A  voice  singing  in  a  minor  key, 
Throaty  and  uncertain  as  a  new-cut  reed. 
"Mama  Quilla,"  it  sang. 
"Mother  Moon, 

Through  the  shell  of  heaven  gliding. 
Moon  of  many  stars  and  brothers, 
Mistress  of  the  bright-haired  rainbow, 
Wife  and  sister  of  the  Sun-god, 
Virgin  moon  who  bore  him  children, 
If  you  die  then  do  we  perish. 
Mama  Quilla, 


22  LEGENDS 

I,  a  Virgin, 
Crave  a  blessing, 
Ask  a  guerdon. 

0  glorious,  chaste,  and  immaculate  moon. 
Preserve  me  to  my  vows. 

But,  I  implore  thee, 

Take  from  me,  therefore,  this  my  longing, 

Let  the  Spring  deal  with  me  gently, 

Still  my  spirit. 

Or,  devout  and  pitying  mother, 

Give  me  thunder, 

Give  me  lightning, 

Break  me  on  a  green-stone  anvil, 

So  the  flower  of  my  body 

Blow  to  loveliness  a  moment. 

1  am  past  my  holding,  Mama  Quilla, 

In  the  night  I  smell  the  strong-scented  blossoms  of  the 

daturas, 
And  my  heart  snares  me  in  its  loneliness." 


FBOM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  23 

So  the  fox  crept  up  to  the  door  where  the  Virgin  of 

the  Sun  sat  spinning. 
"Can  you  tell  me,  Lady,"  said  he,  making  a  fine 

bow, 

"If  the  moon  lives  here  in  Cuzco?" 
Then  the  Virgin  was  afraid, 
For  she  did  not  know  that  foxes  spoke. 
"Who  are  you,"  she  demanded, 
"And  whence  do  you  come?" 
"I  am  a  fox  of  the  Western  Country, 
And  I  come  from  the  water-passage  of  Lake  Titicaca. 
I  love  the  moon, 
I  desire  her  more  than  the  monkeys  of  the  Eastern 

forests 
Desire  dates, 

More  than  your  kinsmen,  the  Incas, 
Desire  the  land  of  the  Machigangas. 
She  is  more  beautiful  to  me  than  red  pepper-pods 


24  LEGENDS 

To  the  shepherds  who  walk  the  mountains  with  their 

llamas. 
I  prize  her  more  greatly  than  do  the  Aquarimas  the 

shrunken  skulls  of  their  enemies. 
She  is  a  poison-tree  of  many  branches: 
With  one,  she  brushes  the  waves  of  the  ocean 
So  that  all  the  shores  are  overflown  with  the  sea  at 

Spring  tides; 

And,  with  another,  she  tickles  the  nose  of  a  tapir 
Asleep  in  a  grove  of  vanilla-trees 
On  the  banks  of  the  Amazon; 

And  I  have  been  blinded  by  the  sweeping  of  a  third 
Above  the  snow-cornice  on  Mount  Vilcanota. 
Oh,  she  has  many  branches 
All  dripping  with  silver-white  poison, 
And  I  have   come   here  to   drink  this  poison  and 

die." 

"But  you  cannot  possess  the  moon; 
It  is  sacrilege,"  cried  the  Virgin, 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION- VINE  25 

And  her  hands  trembled  so  that  the  distaff  fell  to  the 

ground. 
"And  it  is  sacrilege  for  a  Virgin  of  the  Sun  to  sing  of 

the  labours  of  women,"  said  the  fox. 
Then  the  fox  told  of  his  watching,  night  and  night, 

under  the  cactus-bush, 
Of  his  great  pains  and  hungering, 
And  the  Virgin  listened  in  a  tiptoe  of  attention, 
While  the  ruby  humming-birds  splashed  fire  across  the 

silver  ripple  of  the  garden, 
And  the  fountains  sprang  and  recoiled, 
And  the  Sun  sank  behind  the  mountains  of  the  sea. 

Hush! 

Hush! 

In  the  House  of  Acllahua. 

The  Mamacunas  sleep, 

The  Virgins  lie  enmeshed  in  sleep. 

Sleep  folded  on  the  House  of  Acllahua, 


26  LEGENDS 

While  the  Sun,  their  master, 

Dries  the  ocean  with  his  swimming. 

West  to  East,  all  night  he  swims, 

And  they  in  the  House  of  Acllahua  sleep. 

Only  she  is  waiting,  fearing; 

Now  more  gently,  gently,  gliding, 

Through  the  fluttering  silver  flowers. 

And  the  fox  is  waiting, 

Sitting  under  a  tamarisk-tree 

With  his  hot  tongue  hanging  out  of  his  mouth. 

Through  the  thin  cloud  of  tamarisk-leaves 

Falls  a  tempered  moonlight, 

A  feathered,  partial  moonlight, 

A  moonlight  growing  every  moment  stronger, 

A  shadow  growing  every  minute  blacker. 

The  Virgin  and  the  fox  under  the  black  feathers  of  the 

tamarisk-tree, 

While  the  moon  walks  with  a  stately  slowness 
Down  the  long,  quiet  terraces  of  the  sky. 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION- VINE  27 

Hush! 

Hush! 

The  garden  burns  with  cold,  green  fire, 

A  bat  spots  black  on  a  gold  sweet-briar, 

A  polished  rose  on  a  stem  of  wire 

Sweeps  and  bends,  a  blue  flung  ball 

Palpitating, 

Undulating, 

All  the  trees  and  plants  girating, 

All  the  metals  quivering  to  song 

And  the  great  palmettos  beating  gongs. 

The  low,  slow  notes  of  the  water-reeds 

Underscore  the  glass-sweet  beads 

Of  the  little  clapping  melon  seeds. 

Gold  and  silver  strings  of  a  lyre 

Plucked  by  the  wind,  high  pitched  and  higher, 

And  the  silver  moans  with  a  tone  of  its  own 

Fragile  as  an  ixia  newly  blown. 

All  the  garden  sways  to  a  noise 


28  LEGENDS 

Of  humming  metal  in  equipoise. 

Stately  dates  sweep  a  merry-go-round, 

The  fountains  spring  in  a  sparkle  of  sound. 

The  moonlight  falls  in  a  heap  on  the  ground. 

And  there  is  Light! 

Light  in  a  crowned  effulgence 

Thrown  up  from  the  flowers  and  trees, 

Delicate,  pearled  light,  barred  by  beautiful  shadows, 

Bloomed  light,  plunging  upon  the  silver-roofed  Temple. 

Open,  Open, 

Door  of  the  Temple  of  the  Moon. 

Come  forth,  dead  mothers  of  dead  Incas. 

Slow  procession  of  the  dead 

Filing  out  of  the  Temple. 

Mama  Velio,  mother  of  Huayna  Capac, 

Mama  Runtu, 

Mama  Ocllo. 

Feathered  mantles  brush  the  golden  gravel, 

Their  hands  are  crossed  on  their  breasts, 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  29 

They  are    powdered   with    turquoises   and  raw-cut 

emeralds. 

Slowly  the  Inca  mothers  form  a  ring, 
They  hold  a  golden  chain 
Long  and  broad  as  the  great  street  of  Cuzco. 
Slowly  they  move  in  a  circle, 
Chanting. 

Their  steps  are  soft  as  weeping  water. 
Their  voices  are   faint   as  snow  dropping  through 

Autumn  dusk. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  ring,  a  great  fall  of  Light. 
It  is  she  — the  MOON! 
White  mist  circumvolves  about  her, 
On  her  head  is  a  diadem  of  opal-changing  ice, 
And  hoar-frost  follows  the  stepping  of  her  feet. 
A  single  emerald,  half  white,  half  foaming  green, 
Clasps  a  girdle  about  her  waist. 
Terribly  she  dances  in  the  ring  of  Inca  mothers. 
The  garden  turns  with  them  as  they  move, 


80  LEGENDS 

Winding  and  closing  about  them, 

Impelling  them  toward  the  Temple, 

Up  to  the  Altar. 

Trumpets,  brazen  and  vainglorious, 

Silver-striking,  shouting  cymbals, 

Open  horns,  round  gourd-drums  beaten  to  a  rattle  of 

flame. 

Movement,  ghostly,  perpetual, 
And  sound,  loud,  sweet,  sucking  from  the  four  edges 

of  the  sky. 
Everything  swings,  and  sings,  and  oscillates,  and 

curves. 

Only  the  moon  upon  the  High  Altar  is  still. 
She  stands,  struck  to  immobility, 
Then,  without  haste,  unclasps  the  foaming  emerald 
And  the  mists  part  and  fall .  .  . 
Silence  — 

Silence  spread  beneath  her  as  a  footstool. 
The  flowers  close; 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  31 

The  Inca  mothers  are  dead  corpses  on  their  silver 

thrones. 
But  She! 

Naked,  white,  and  beautiful, 
Poised  and  infinite; 
Flesh, 
Spirit, 

Woman  and  Unparalleled  Enchantment. 
Moon  of  waters, 
Womb  of  peoples, 
Majesty  and  highest  Queen. 
So  the  Goddess  burns  in  a  halo  of  white-rose  fire 
For  an  instant  .  .  . 
Yelp!  Yelp!  Yelp! 

The  fox  has  burst  from  the  Virgin's  grasp. 
Over  the  garden, 
Up  the  aisle  of  the  Temple, 
With  staring  eyes 
And  ghoulish,  licking  tongue. 


32  LEGENDS 

Satyr  fox  assaulting  the  moon ! 

THUNDER!!! 

Lightning  serpents 

Wound  in  great  circles  above  the  Temple. 

Sheets  of  lightning  snarling  from  racing,  purple  clouds 

And  rain  roaring  down  the  hot  walls  of  a  copper  sky. 

The  clouds  splinter,  and  a  ruined  moon  wavers  up  into 
the  heavens,  about  her  are  three  great  rings,  one 
of  blood,  one  of  black,  and  the  utmost  all  of 
stinging,  glutinous,  intorting  coils  of  smoke. 

Upon  the  disk  of  the  moon  are  spots,  black  obscene 
spots,  the  print  of  a  fox's  paws. 


Bake  your  cakes  of  the  sacred  maize,  Virgin, 

Tend  the  flame  the  priest  has  gathered  with  his  metal 

sun-glass, 
Weave  feathered  mantles  for  the  Coya, 


FROM  A  YUCCA  TO  A  PASSION-VINE  33 

Burn  holy  gums  to  deaden  the  scent  of  the  daturas. 
If  you  and  the  moon  have  a  secret, 
Let  it  rest  there. 


34  LEGENDS 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN 

OLD  China  sits  and  broods  behind  her  ten-thousand- 
miles-great  wall, 

And  the  rivers  of  old  China  crawl  —  crawl  —  forever 
Toward  the  distant,  ceaselessly  waiting  seas. 

At  King-te-chin  in  China, 

At  King-te-chin  in  the  far  East  of  the  Eighteen  Prov- 
inces of  China, 

Where  all  day  long  the  porcelain  factories  belch  corded 
smoke, 

And  all  night  long  the  watch-men,  striking  the  hours 
on  their  lizard-skin  drums, 

Follow  the  shadows  thrown  before  them 

From  a  sky  glazed  scarlet  as  it  floats  over  the  fires  of 
burning  kilns  — 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  35 

At  King-te-chin,  in  the  heart  of  brooding  China, 

Lives  Chou-Kiou, 

White  as  milk  in  a  tazza  cup, 

Red  as  a  pear-tree  just  dropping  its  petals, 

Happy  as  the  Spring-faced  wind. 

Chou-Kiou, 

For  whom  the  wild  geese  break  their  flight, 

And  the  fishes  seek  the  darkness  of  the  lower  waters. 

Chou-Kiou, 

Apt  as  a  son, 

Loved  as  a  son, 

More  precious  to  her  father  than  blue  earth  with  stars 

of  silver. 

It  is  Chou-Kiou  who  paints  the  fighting  crickets 
On  the  egg-shell  cups ; 
Who  covers  the  Wa-wa  cups 
With  little  bully  boys; 
Who  sketches  Manchu  ladies,  Tartar  ladies, 


36  LEGENDS 

Chasing  crimson  butterflies  with  faint  silk  fans, 

On  the  slim  teapots  of  young  bamboo. 

Chou-Kiou, 

Bustling  all  day  between  the  kilns  and  the  warehouses. 

A  breath  of  peach-bloom  silk 

Turning  a  pathway  — 

Puff!  She  is  gone, 

As  a  peach-blossom  painted  on  paper 

Caught  in  a  corner  of  the  wind. 

King-te-chin  in  the  Province  of  Kiangsi, 

Noblest  of  the  manufactories  of  porcelain, 

Where,  from  sunrise  to  sundown, 

In  the  narrow  streets, 

The  porters  cry  "Way!    Way!"  for  the  beautiful 

dishes 

They  carry  to  the  barges, 
The  flat  barges  which  nuzzle  and  nudge  the  banks  of 

the  river  Jao  T'cheou; 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  37 

And  the  strong  stevedore  coolies  grunt 

As  they  lift  the  clay  bricks  quarried  in  the  P'ing-li 

mountains 
Out  of  the  sharp-prowed  boats  moored  along  the  river 

Ki-muen. 

Meng  Tsung,  master  of  a  thousand  workmen, 
Walks  under  the  red  eaves  of  his  buildings 
In  the  tea-green  shadow  of  the  willow-trees, 
Contemplating  his  bakers,  his  mixers,  his  painters, 
The  men  who  carry  tcha  wood, 
And   those,    nicer-fingered,   who    turn    the   shaping 

wheels. 

He  walks  among  the  beehive  furnaces, 
And  his  nostrils  smart  with  the  sharp  scent  of  ashes, 
And  his  ears  rattle  with  the  crackle  of  a  hundred 

flames. 
Me"ng  Tsung,  finest  of  the  porcelain-makers  of  King- 

te-chin. 


30  LEGENDS 

In  China, 

Old  China, 

What  other  artists  do  is  his  work  also; 

Does  Lu  Tzu  Kang  work  in  jade;  the  porcelains  of 

Meng  Tsung  are  ice  and  rainbows. 
What  Chu  Pi-shan  can  do  in  silver, 
What  Hsiao-hsi  in  carnelian, 
Pao  T'ien-ch'eng  in  rhinoceros  horn, 
P'u  Chung-ch'ien  in  carved  bamboo, 
Chang  Ch'ien-li  in  mother-of-pearl, 
All  this  is  nothing. 
The  bowls  of  Meng  Tsung  are  like  Spring  sun  on  a 

rippled  river, 

Like  willow-leaves  seen  over  late  ice, 
Like  bronze  bells  one  hour  before  sunset. 
They  are  light  as  the  eggs  of  the  yellow-eyebrowed 

thrush, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  39 

And  wonderful   in  colour  as   the    green   grapes  of 

Turkestan. 
Meng   Tsung   walks    under    the    red   eaves    of    his 

buildings, 

Musing  on  the  beauty  of  old,  old  China, 
Listening  to  the  dull  beating  of  the  fish-drums  in  the 

monastery  on  the  hill  calling  the  attention  of 

God  to  the  prayers  of  his  monks. 

Beautiful  the  sun  of  China, 

Beautiful  the  squares  of  flooded  rice-fields, 

The  long  slopes  of  tea  plants  on  the  hills  of  Ning-po, 

The  grey  mulberry -trees  of  Chuki. 

Beautiful  the  cities  between  the  rivers, 

But  three,  and  three,  and  three  times  more  beautiful 

The  porcelains  fashioned  by  Chou-Kiou. 

See  them  in  the  sun, 

Swept  over  by  the  blowing  shade  of  willows, 

Moulded  like  lotus-leaves, 


40  LEGENDS 

Yellow  as  the  skins  of  eels, 

Black  glaze  overlaid  with  gold. 

Tell  the  story  of  this  porcelain 

With  veins  like  arbor- vitae  leaves  and  bullock's  hair, 

Mottled  as  hare's  fur, 

Bright  and  various  as  the  wooded  walls  of  mountains. 

Here  are  the  dawn-red  wine-cups, 

And  the  cups  of  snow-blue  with  no  glisten; 

Little  vases,  barely  taller  than  a  toad, 

And    great,    three-part    vases    shining    slowly    like 

tarnished  silver. 

They  stand  in  rows  along  the  flat  board 
And  she  checks  them,  one  by  one,  on  a  tablet  of 

fir-flower  paper, 
And  her  eyes  are  little  copper  bells  fallen  in  the  midst 

of  tall  grass. 

Tell  the  tale  of  these  great  jars, 
Cloudy  coloured  as  the  crystal  grape 
With  white  bloom  of  rice-dust  upon  them, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  41 

Fallen  over  at  the  top  by  pointed  bunches 

Of  the  myriad-year  wistaria. 

Those  smaller  jars  of  moonlight  enamel,  dark  and  pale, 

With  undulating  lines  which  seem  to  change. 

Pots  green  as  growing  plants  are  green, 

Marked  with  the  hundred-fold  crackle  of  broken  ice. 

Pallets  painted  blue  with  dragons, 

And  ample  dishes,  redder  than  fresh  blood, 

Spotted  with  crabs'  claws, 

Splashed  with  bluish  flames  of  fire. 

Here  are  bowls  faintly  tinted  as  tea-dust 

Or  the  fading  leaf  of  the  camphor-tree  in  Autumn; 

Others  as  bamboo  paper  for  thickness, 

Lightly  spattered  with  vermilion  fishes; 

And  white  bowls 

Surpassing  hoar-frost  and  the  pointed  tips  of  icicles. 

There  are  birds  painted  thinly  in  dull  reds, 

Fighting-cocks  with  rose-pink  legs  and  crests  of  silver, 


42  LEGENDS 

Teapots  rough  as  the  skin  of  the  Kio  orange,  or 
blistered  with  the  little  flower-buds  of  the 
Tsong-tree. 

How  tell  the  carminates, 

The  greens  of  pale  copper, 

The  leopard-spotted  yellows, 

The  blues,  powdered  and  indefinite  as  a  Mei  plum! 

Globular  bodies  with  bulbous  mouths; 

Slim,  long  porcelains  confused  like  a  weedy  sea; 

Porcelains,  pale  as  the  morning  sky 

Fluttered  with  purple  wings  of  finches; 

High-footed  cups  for  green  wine, 

And  incense-burners  yellow  as  old  Llama  books 

With  cranes  upon  them. 

Blue  porcelain  for  the  Altar  of  Heaven, 

Yellow  for  the  Altar  of  Earth, 

Red  for  the  Altar  of  the  Sun, 

White  for  the  Altar  of  the  Year-star. 

All  these  Chou-Kiou  sets  down  on  her  fir-flower  tablet, 

Then  carefully,  carefully,  selects  a  cup 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  43 

Of  so  keen  a  transparence  that  the  sun,  passing  it,  can 

scarcely  mark  a  shadow, 
And  fills  it  with  water. 
Oh!  The  purple  fishes! 

The  dark-coloured  fishes  with  scales  of  silver!     • 
The  blue-black  fishes  swerving  in  a  trail  of  gold ! 
They  move  and  flicker, 
They  swing  in  procession, 
They  dart,  and  hesitate,  and  float 
With  flower-waving  tails  — 
The  vase  is  empty  again, 
Smooth  and  open  and  colourless. 
The  tally  is  finished, 
The  sun  is  sinking  in  a  rose-green  sky, 
And  in  the  guard-house  down  the  road 
The  red  tallow  candles  are  lighted. 

It  is  the  fifth  day  of  the  fifth  month, 
And  all  the  demons  of  old  China 


44  LEGENDS 

Are  chattering  down  from  the  mountains  of  the  North. 

Little  Chou-Kiou, 

Where  are  the  spears  of  the  sweet-flag 

You  should  have  gathered  yesterday 

And  nailed  to  the  door-lintel  at  the  first  flow  of 

morning? 
Little  Chou-Kiou, 
It  is  too  late, 

The  guards  have  clanged  the  Dragon  Gate. 
Flags  do  not  grow  in  this  trodden  city, 
Demons  laugh  at  the  studded  walls  of  men. 
You  dream  of  your  betrothed 
As  you  roll  your  tablet, 
Your  lover  sailing  the  sharp  seas, 
Your  lover  of  the  tall  junks 
Trading  up  and  down  the  coast 
Glad  when  the  two  eyes  of  his  ship 
Are  turned  again  to  China. 
Silly  Chou-Kiou, 


A  LEGEND  OF  POKCELAIN  45 

Absorbed  by  love  and  dishes, 

Forgetting  the  evil  spirits 

Descending  from  the  curled  blue  mountains. 


Open  the  Gate, 
Open  the  Gate, 
His  Lordship  T'ang  Ling, 
High  official  to  the  Emperor, 
Waits  without  the  walls. 
Hurry,  Guards, 
The  sun  is  red, 

The  gate  already  casts  a  shadow. 
T'ang  Ling  is  come 
To  visit  the  porcelain  factories 
Of  King-te-chin. 

Click!  Click!  —  loud  and  imperious! 
It  is  the  mandarin's  outrunners, 
And  the  rods  they  are  carrying  and  striking  on  the 
ground. 


46  LEGENDS 

Clash, 

Clash, 

Gongs. 

Feet  of  men  in  the  clouded  dust, 

Whipping  banners  scarlet  and  gold, 

Tablet-bearers  carrying  his  scrolls: 

All  of  his  titles, 

All  of  his  greatness, 

All  of  his  honours, 

Who  were  his  fathers, 

Grim,  dim,  warriors, 

Poems  and  speeches. 

Pass, 

Pass, 

Golden  the  heels  of  the  men  of  T'ang  Ling. 

Here  is  one  staggering, 

Mightily  flaunting, 

The  heavy,  flat,  superb  umbrella ! 

Spreading  crimson  as  a  lotus, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  47 

Frozen  sun-disk, 

Carried  high  before  him. 

Clatter!  Trip!  Clatter!  Clatter! 

See  the  caparisoned  horses 

Glittering  and  kicking  — 

How  lightly  ride  the  men  of  T'ang  Ling ! 

They  bear  the  moon  fans  before  his  fuce, 

Honourable  gentleman. 

They  raise  the  golden  melon  mace. 

They  have  bamboos  for  the  contumacious, 

Arid  chains  for  persons  who  resist  the  God-like  will. 

A  space, 

Rifting  the  procession  — 

Then  a  bright  and  massive  thing: 

His  Chair! 

Gold  thunder  carvings, 

Mighty  lines  and  fallen  spirais, 

Dazzling  as  the  sun  on  cannon, 

And  he,  the  Proud  One,  T'ang  Ling, 


48  LEGENDS 

With  his  sapphire  button, 

And  the  plaques  of  his  coat  embroidered  with  one- 
eyed  peacocks'  feathers. 
Play  Ch'ang  flutes  before  him, 
Make  a  loud  music  of  cymbals, 
Pluck  sharply  on  the  three-stringed  guitars, 
Prostrate  yourselves, 
And  beat  the  snake-skin  drums. 
K'otow,  Meng  Tsung, 
Walk  backwards  past  the  beehive  furnaces, 
T'ang  Ling,  servant  of  the  Yellow  Emperor, 
Has  come  to  inspect  the  porcelain. 

You  must  stay  in  the  Eastern  Pavilion, 

Chou-Kiou, 

Hiding  and  peeking  behind  the  amethyst  flowers  of  the 

peonies. 

But  do  not  forget  the  sweet-flag 
Which  you  did  not  hang  upon  the  door. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  49 

Tea  appears  red  in  white  Hsing-chou  porcelain, 

How  strange  then  to  offer  such  to  an  official. 

When  T'ang  Ling  came  to  visit  Meng  Tsung 

They  sat  under  a  cinnamon-tree 

Examining  the  "Pieces  of  a  Thousand  Flowers." 

Coiling-dragon  tea  is  best  in  black  cups, 

And  silver  vessels  hold  the  gosling-down  wine. 

Lychees  and  finger  citrons 

Delight  the  palate  of  the  great  man, 

And  flat-land  ginger,  soft  and  tender  to  the  taste; 

But  candied  melon-rind  calls  for  more  wine. 

One  hundred  cups  is  nothing  to  so  high  an  officer. 

Already  his  fingers  stray  in  vague  tappings 

Among  the  samples  of  porcelain. 

A  dragon  bowl,  seven  days  fired,  for  the  Palace. 

What  is  T'ang  Ling  doing  with  the  sword  — 

Does  he  dream  of  the  campaigns  of  his  youth, 

Whirling  it  voraciously  before  him? 


50  LEGENDS 

His  sword  is  tempered  to  an  edge  of  flame, 

It  cleaves  the  dragon  bowl  without  a  splinter. 

Chou-Kiou, 

Chou-Kiou, 

Was  the  river  so  far  that  you  could  not  reach  it 

yesterday  before  the  twilight  fell? 
The  flags  which  you  did  not  pick  must  spear  your 

heart. 

A  diamond-marked  python  scuttles  away  under  the 

potting-shed, 
But  every  one  knows  that  evil  spirits  take  many  forms. 


Drive, 

Frosty  sea, 

Against  the  high  beak  of  this  junk, 
Cover  the  painted  eyes  with  foam. 
Kuan- Yin,  Goddess  of  sailors, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  51 

Care  for  this  man; 

Even  in  remembering,  his  betrothed  has  forgotten  him. 

It  will  be  long  —  long  — 

Before  they  sit  together  gazing  at  the  flowery  candles. 

Pirate  junks  make  bitter  waiting. 

The  moon  above  the  potting-sheds  is  cold. 


Disaster, 

A  great  plague  of  disaster, 

Fallen  upon  the  factory  of  Meng  Tsung. 

Evil  spirits  in  clay,  in  water,  in  fire. 

The  clay  weakens  in  the  potter's  grasp 

And  falls  to  powder  on  the  wheel. 

When  the  furnaces  are  opened, 

The  lovely-shaped  vessels 

Are  run  into  flakes  of  cream 

At  the  bottom  of  the  seggars. 

The  tcha  wood, 


52  LEGENDS 

The  strong,  horned  tcha  wood, 

Crisp,  brittle,  dried  to  the  very  bite  of  fire, 

Hewn  perfectly, 

Split  to  an  even  thickness, 

Piled  with  meticulous  care  by  the  circular  pilers  — 

The  tcha  wood  dies  under  the  touch  of  the  lighters, 

It  crackles  as  though  each  pore  seeped  water; 

And  the  men  who  carry  it  to  the  ovens 

Swear  at  the  splinters  buried  in  their  flesh. 

Cinnabar  vases  bake  an  acrid  chrome, 

Blue  glaze  gutters  into  thorns  of  yellow, 

Fox  fingers  smear  the  delicately  etched  designs. 

Have  the  P'ei-se-kong,  the  colour-mixers,  gone  mad? 

The  pound  —  pound  —  of  their  pestles  seems  louder 

than  usual. 

No  —  pestles  do  not  strike  with  such  a  clang : 
Devil  gongs  beat  on  the  roof -tiles, 
Devil  bells  tinkle  at  the  winuows, 
A  bloody  moon  casts  an  ape's  shadow 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  53 

On  the  open  space  before  the  warehouse  door. 
There  is  a  wailing  of  gibbons  in  the  willow-trees, 
But  gibbons  do  not  live  in  the  populous  city  of  King- 
te-chin. 

In  twos,  in  threes,  in  companies, 
The  servants  of  the  factory  slink  away. 
Chou-Kiou  weeps  at  her  painting, 
For  the  junk  with  the  watching  eyes  is  desperately 
overdue. 

Foxes  dance  by  night  in  dim,  old  China, 
And  the  agent  of  the  Emperor  demands  the  delivery  of 
the  Palace  bowls. 

M6ng  Tsung  is  a  crazy  man, 

He  nods  his  head  and  claps  his  hands, 

He  sits  and  plays  a  game  of  chess 

In  a  staring,  stuttering  idleness. 

Swallows  build  in  the  eye-holes  of  his  kilns. 


04  l.KUKMW 

SlV  her  piek  her  way  up  the  stony  path. 

Her  little  feet,  small  MS  the  quarters  of  a  sweet  oraiij 

Hoar  IUT  sadly  over  thr  roiiithm-ss. 

Tlio  stars  hang  out  of  tin-  sky  like  lotus-sooils. 

It  is  the  third  watch,  and  the  city  gates  are  shut. 

Taoist  priests  know  many  things. 

Ami  folk  l>e\\iU  he.l  say  nothing  of  difficulties. 

The  \\hine  of  an  owl  trembles  along  the  darkness. 

She  runs, 

Flinging  her  heart  forward. 

Reaching  to  it, 

Floundering. 

"We  need  light,"  says  the  Taoist  priest. 

And  he  cuts  a  bit  of  paper  round  like  the  moon 

And  hangs  it  on  the  wall. 


A- 

And  it  i»  the  mo 


Silver  and  fc»«r*irer, 

He  «te{»  into  tbe  MOO 
A«d  dK  wcs  UM  driaki^  riee^ve 
Aad  «k*rfy  vritiDg  on  a  tablet. 
TW  nM»  M  fifed  witfc 


OB  Wide*  mOt-MJ  fttt-Z 


56  LEGENDS 

She,  daughter  of  Meng  Tsung  greatest  of  those  who 

work  in  porcelain, 
Has  strayed  from  the  path  of  her  most  respected 

ancestors. 

Thinking  of  love,  she  forgot  filial  piety; 
Snared  by  beauty,  she  permitted  her  august  father's 

house  to  go  unguarded. 

Now  a  fox  has  entered  the  body  of  her  most  directly- 
to-be-commiserated  father, 
While  he  by  whom  she  was  truly  begot  lies  bound  in 

the  cave  of  the  Tiger-peaked  mountain. 
Weary,  weary,  the  way  of  an  arrogant  heart, 
Sad,  and  beyond  sadness,  the  lot  of  Chou-Kiou. 
With  her  white  hands  she  must  labour, 
With  her  'golden  lily'  feet  she  must  stumble  under 

terrific  burdens. 
The  breath  of  her  mouth  must  coax  the  flame  to  enter 

wet  wood, 
She  must  sear  and  burn  before  the  hot  furnaces, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  57 

And,  waking  many  nights  and  days,  produce  in  agony 

a  bowl 
*  Bright  as  a  mirror,  blue  as  the  sky,  thin  as  paper, 

sweet-sounding  to  the  touch  as  camphor- jade.' " 

China! 

China! 

The  voice  of  Chou-Kiou  is  very  small, 

Her  eyes  are  pale, 

Her  limbs  stiff  as  frozen  thorns: 

"And  if  I  do  this  thing, 

What  of  him,  Wu,  my  betrothed?" 

"The  scroll  is  written,"  said  the  Taoist  priest. 

The  Gods  are  many  and  confused  in  old,  dim  China. 


Morning  leaping  from  the  rims  of  the  mountains; 
Darkness  leaning  farther  and  farther  over  a  descend- 
ing sun. 


58  LEGENDS 

Clouds  bring  rain, 

And  winds  dry  the  pools  of  it. 

The  North-west  wind  whirls  dust  over  the  willow-trees; 

Wild  duck  and  teal  cross  and  re-cross  King-te-chin 

In  search  of  water, 

And  the  hurry  of  their  wings 

Is  the  rush  of  the  Northern  monsoon 

Sweeping  the  gulf  of  Tonkin. 

Chou-Kiou  pounds  the  blue  clay, 

Kneading  it  with  effort  to  its  finest  granules. 

Days  and  Days  — 

The  smartweed  reddens  on  the  river  shoals; 

Eye-fruit  and  pears  are  dropping  in  the  gardens; 

Floating  elm-leaves  gild  running  water; 

The  pinnacles  of  the  Dragon  Mountains  are  clear 

above  red  mist. 

Chou-Kiou  paints  a  crane  and  two  mandarin  ducks 
Under  a  persimmon-tree. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  59 

She  dips  the  jar,  and  poises  it, 

But  her  ears  are  numb  with  the  heavy  sound  of  the  sea. 

Cold  winds. 

Long  Autumn. 

"  Leaves  touched  by  frost  are  redder  than  flowers  of 

the  second  moon.'* 
How  drag  the  great  wood, 
How  build  it  into  a  circle  of  fire, 
Waveringly  uncertain  on  the  "golden  lily"  feet? 
Bheng!  Sh£ng!  The  water-clock  marks  an  hour  which 

has  gone. 

Fhe  wind  is  sad,  blowing  ceaselessly  from  the  clear 

stars, 

Fhe  lamp-flower  flickers  and  dies  down, 
[s  her  shadow  some  one? 
[s  she,  perhaps,  not  alone? 


60  LEGENDS 

She  raises  the  bamboo  blind, 

Snow  is  falling, 

The  branches  of  the  Winter  plum-tree 

Glitter  like  jade  hairpins  against  a  white  sky. 

Brooms  brush  little  snow, 

Her  fox  father  laughs  and  rattles  his  chess-men. 

Chou-Kiou, 

Bones  under  frosty  water 

Bleach  as  white  as  the  jade-coloured  branches  of  the 

plum-tree : 
You  remember  now, 
Sweeping  from  dawn  till  evening 
A  pathway  to  the  kilns. 

She  has  blown  upon  the  fire  and  kindled  it, 

She  has  set  her  fragile  bowl  in  the  midst  of  the  flame. 

She  lifts  her  eyes  from  the  red  fire 

For  green  Spring  is  like  smoke  in  the  willow-trees. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  61 

The  rivers  run  flooding  over  the  wharves  of  King-te- 

chin. 

She  hears  the  porters  shouting:  "Way!  Way!" 
In  the  streets,  going  up  and  down  from  the  boats. 
But  about  her  is  only  the  harsh  sound  of  fire, 
And  a  crow  calling:  "Ka!  Ka!  Ka!" 
In  a  mulberry-tree. 

Ashes  of  fire, 

Ashes  of  the  days  of  the  World! 

If  failure,  then  another  long  beginning. 

Why  hope, 

Why  think  that  Spring  must  bring  relenting. 

O  man  of  this  woman, 

Where  on  all  the  Spring-flown  oceans 

Is  your  junk? 

Where  your  heart  that  you  cannot  hear  the  cuckoos 

calling  from  the  fir  woods  of  the  Golden  Yoke 

Cliff? 


62  LEGENDS 

China  blossoms  above  her  sea-beaches, 
Her  trees  break  budding  to  an  early  sun, 
Foot-boats  fly  along  the  blue  rivers, 
But  Chou-Kiou  sobs  as  brick  by  brick  she  opens  the 
cooled  kiln. 

Oh,  marvel  of  lightness ! 

Oh,  colour  hidden  and  all  at  once  emphatically  clear! 

Like  a  bright  moon  carved  in  ice, 

Green  as  the  thousand  peaks, 

Blue  as  the  sky  after  rain, 

Violet  as  the  skin  of  an  egg-plant  fruit, 

Then  once  again  white, 

White  as  the  "secretly-smiling"  magnolia, 

And  singing  a  note  when  struck 

Sharp  and  full  as  all  the  hundred  and  fifty  bells 

On  the  Porcelain  Tower  of  Nankin. 

This  bowl  is  worth  one  hundred  taels  of  silver. 
Pour  in  the  black  dragon  tea, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  63 

Plucked  in  April  before  the  Spring  rains, 
This  shall  be  a  libation  to  Kuan-Yin, 
Goddess  of  Mercy. 
Chou-Kiou  has  no  wine. 
Fragrant  Goddess,  despise  not  the  yellow  tea. 
But  the  tea  bubbles, 
It  moves  like  waves  in  a  short  bay, 
It  tumbles  with  a  glitter  of  rainbows. 
Wing-flare  widening  out  of  the  cup  — 
The  great  crane  sweeps  into  the  air. 
He  circles  round  Chou-Kiou, 
Circles,  circles  — 

With  him  are  the  mandarin  ducks. 
The  air  is  dark  with  wings, 
It  is  bright  with  the  clipping  and  cutting 
Of  quickly-flickered  wings. 
In  a  whirl  of  wind, 

Something  comes  twirling  and  dazzling  out  of  the 
house, 


64  LEGENDS 

Flapping  in  plum-coloured  silks, 

Confusing  with  motion, 

Blurred, 

Without  contour. 

It  is  a^  man  — 

It  is  a  bit  of  paper  — 

It  is  a  bamboo-silk  cocoon  — 

It  blows,  turning  —  turning  —  toward  the  bowl, 

It  is  blown  into  the  bowl  — 

The  tea  is  red, 

It  leaps,  water-spouting,  into  the  air. 

It  soars  over  the  red  roof-tiles, 

It  glitters  like  a  pagoda  hot  with  lamps, 

And  then  descends, 

Sucking,  into  the  bowl, 

Sucking,  out  of  the  bowl, 

Disappearing  where  there  is  no  hole. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  65 

It  is  a  beautiful  piece, 

With  white  and  grey  peonies  and  yellow  persimmons. 

There  are  no  birds,  only  flowers, 

Starting  in  a  chord  of  colours  out  of  violet  haze. 

Chou-Kiou  has  fainted, 

She  does  not  hear  Meng  Tsung 

Calling  to  her  from  the  Terrace  of  the  Peach-Trees. 


I  read  this  tale  in  the  "Azure  Sky  Bookshop,"  in  the 
ninth  month  of  the  sixth  year  of  To  Kwong. 

When  I  had  reached  this  point,  the  shadow  of  a  thirty- 
two-paper  kite  fell  upon  my  page,  and  raising 
my  eyes  to  the  sky,  the  whiteness  of  the  sun 
dazzled  me,  and  I  inadvertently  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  book. 

How  many  I  turned,  I  do  not  know,  but  when  I  could 
see  again  after  the  blindness  of  the  sky  I  read 


66  LEGENDS 

at  once,  not  daring  to  go  back  for  the  leap  of 
the  story  upon  which  I  had  fallen  — 

"Pity,  pity  me, 

For  my  flesh  cries  night  and  morning; 
The  darkness  hears  me, 

And  the  tongues  of  the  darkness  babble  back  his  name. 
I  am  eager  and  thwarted. 
Daughter  I  am, 

And  as  a  daughter  I  have  given  my  brain  and  my  body 
To  restore  my  father's  house. 
Alone,  with  bleeding  feet  and  frozen  hands, 
I  have  lifted  the  curse  fallen  upon  my  people; 
I  have  toiled  without  sleep 
Until  the  sight  of  my  eyes  was  broken. 
Hungering  for  days,  chattering  with  cold  and  sorrow, 
I  have  not  suffered  my  heart  to  weaken. 
My  prayers  have  risen  incessantly  to  the  thirty-three 
Heavens. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  67 

All  powerful  Goddess,  you  have  regarded  me, 
And  taken  me  under  your  protection. 
I  am  a  worm, 

Spurning  the  mulberry-leaf  to  cry  upon  the  moon. 
Holy  Kuan-Yin,  of  the  thousand  eyes,  and  the  thou- 
sand arms,  and  the  merciful  heart, 
I  beseech  a  farther  clemency. 
You,  who  answer  the  longings  of  the  sterile, 

Do  not  mock  me  with  a  half-completed  pardon. 

Daughter  I  am,  Kuan-Yin, 

But  I  am  also  a  woman. 

I  love  as  women  here  in  China  must  not, 

But  as  you  know  very  well  they  must  and  do. 

Glory  has  once  more  entered  into  my  father's  heart, 

All  day  he  watches  his  men. 

He  weighs  the  precious  blue  earth  and  numbers  it. 

He  oversees  the  lame  men  who  knead  the  clay, 

He  praises  and  chides  the  painters, 


68  LEGENDS 

And  rises  in  the  night  to  superintend  the  firers. 

King-te-chin  hums  like  a  hive  at  swarming  time 

Between  its  rivers, 

And  this  is  the  loudest  of  all  the  factories  of  King- 
te-chin. 

Only  I  am  desolate. 

I  am  as  the  shadow  of  a  bamboo  upon  bleached  sand, 

My  eyes  are  black  and  colourless  seeking  the  boats  on 
the  long  canals, 

My  ears  rattle  waiting  for  the  sharp  sound  of  a  voice 
at  the  gate. 

Once  more  I  will  work,  Kuan- Yin, 

I  will  use  all  my  skill  to  honour  you. 

I  will  fashion  you  in  such  a  manner  that  your  eyes  will 
laugh  to  see  it. 

I  will  make  a  figure  of  you  in  fine  silk  porcelain 

And  set  it  in  the  temple  where  all  can  see, 

And,  looking,  their  hearts  will  be  to  you  as  coral  beads 
on  a  string  of  white  gold 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  69 

For  your  hand's  stretching, 

And  for  an  ornament  upon  your  breast  forever." 

Then  Chou-Kiou  tightened  her  willow-coloured  girdle 

And  sat  down  to  the  modelling  board. 

And  on  the  fifteenth  day  the  figure  was  completed, 

Not  entirely  to  Chou-Kiou's  dissatisfaction. 

Underneath  it  she  wrote:  "Made  at  the  Brilliant 
Colours  Hall." 

And  again:  "Reverentially  made  by  Chou-Kiou, 
daughter  of  M£ng  Tsung  Captain  of  the  Ban- 
ner promoted  four  honorary  grades,  also  Direc- 
tor of  a  Porcelain  Manufactory  at  King-te-chin 
in  the  Province  of  Kiangsi:  and  presented  by 
her  to  the  Temple  of  the  Holy  God  of  Heaven 
to  remain  through  everlasting  tune  as  an  offer- 
nig  of  a  grateful  heart  and  as  a  glory  in  the  eyes 
of  men :  on  a  fortunate  day  in  the  Spring  of  the 
6th  year  of  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Ch'ien- 
lung." 


70  LEGENDS 

For  days  she  paints  it, 
Rubbing  the  gold  with  garlic-bulbs 
To  fix  its  lustre. 

Laying  copper-foil  about  it  to  heighten  the  colour, 
Setting  it  with  careful  blue : 
The  blue  of  little  stones, 

The  blue  of  the  precious  stone  Mei'-Kouei'-tse-yeou, 
The  blue  of  the  head  of  Buddha. 
She  dreams  of  beauty, 

And  the  face  of  the  figure  is  lovely  as  her  dreams; 
But  has  it  not  been  written:  "It  is  useless  to  cast  a  net 
to  catch  the  image  of  the  moon." 

Night  over  China, 

Night  over  old,  distant  China, 

Dark  night  over  the  city  of  King-te-chin. 

Chou-Kiou, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  71 

Chou-Kiou, 

Your  eyes  are  red  watching  the  flames  of  a  furnace, 

And  the  great  shield  of  wood  you  hold 

Scarcely  protects  you  from  the  bursting  heat  of  the 

kiln. 

For  three  days  and  three  nights 
You  have  tended  a  flowing  fire; 
For  two  days  and  two  nights 
You  have  watched  before  a  fierce  fire; 
Now  the  seggar  is  red  and  passing  into  a  white  heat, 
It  is  bright  in  front  and  behind. 
At  cock-crow  you  will  stop  the  fire, 
But  to-night  you  watch, 
And  your  eyes  are  salt 
As  though  you  stood  before  the  sea. 
A  wind  teases  the  willow-trees, 
They  rustle, 
And  fling  the  moonlight  from  them  like  spray. 


72  LEGENDS 

And  then  snow  fell  from  the  midst  of  the  moon. 

The  flakes  were  like  willow-flowers, 

They  drifted  down  slowly, 

And  the  brilliance  of  the  moon  struck  upon  them  as 

they  fell 

So  that  all  the  air  was  flowing  with  silver, 
And  walking  in  the  arc  of  it  was  a  woman 
Who  cast  a  whip-like  shadow  before  her 
From  the  brightness  of  the  snow  and  the  white,  round 

moon. 

All  the  flowers  bend  toward  her, 

The  grass  by  the  ring-fence  lies  horizontally  to  reach 

her, 

She  moves  with  the  movement  of  wind  over  water, 
And  it  is  no  longer  the  moon  which  casts  her  shadow 
But  she  who  sets  shadows  curving  outward 
From  the  pebbles  at  her  feet. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  73 

Her  dress  is  Ch'ing-green  playing  into  scarlet, 

Embroidered  with  the  hundred  shous; 

The  hem  is  a  slow  delight  of  gold,  the  faded,  beautiful 

gold  of  temple  carvings; 
In  her  hair  is  a  lotus, 
Red  as  the  sun  after  rain. 
She  comes  softly  —  softly  — 
And  the  tinkle  of  her  ornaments 
Jars  the  smooth  falling  of  the  snow 
So  that  it  breaks  into  jagged  lightnings 
Which  form  about  her  the  characters  of  her  holy  name : 
Kuan-Yin,  Goddess  of  Mercy,  of  Sailors,  of  all  who 

know  sorrow  and  grieve  in  bitterness. 

Ochre-red  sails  are  dark  in  moonlight, 

But  the  red  heart  of  man  is  like  a  water-clock  dripping 

the  hours; 

Lost  days  weigh  many  ounces  of  silver, 
But  green  Spring  is  worth  blood  and  gold. 


74  LEGENDS 

Snow  ceases  falling, 

Moonlight  is  no  longer  broken,  but  a  single  piece. 
Her  eyebrows  are  fine  as  the  edge  of  distant  moun- 
tains, 

Her  eyes  are  clear  as  the  T'ung-T'ing  lake  in  Autumn, 
Her  face  is  sweet  as  almond-flowers  in  a  wind. 
The  breath  of  her  passing  is  cool; 
Her  gesture  is  a  plum-blossom  waving. 
She  mounts  the  step 
And  looks  into  the  eye-hole  of  the  kiln. 
One  —  two  —  three,  the  pulse  of  Chou-Kiou, 
Beating  to  a  given  time,  like  music. 
The  coals  of  the  fire  are  not  fierce  now 
But  gentle, 

They  lie  hi  the  form  of  roses 
And  the  scent  of  them  is  the  urgent  scent  of  musk. 

A  watchman  calls  the  hour 

And  strikes  on  his  bamboo  drum. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  75 

The  moon  fades  down  a  long  green  sky. 

There  is  no  one  on  the  step, 

No  flight  of  silks  down  the  pathway, 

Chou-Kiou  sickens  to  a  weariness  which  eats  her 

bones. 

She  rakes  the  scattered  embers. 
The  firing  is  done. 

Spring  day. 

How  sharp  the  pheasants'  cry, 

Like  metal! 

This  year  the  bamboo  flowers, 

This  year  the  many-petalled  peonies 

Are  large  as  rising  moons. 

The  men  of  the  "Brilliant  Coloured  Factory"  stand 

In  their  blue  jackets, 

In  their  dark-purple  silk  jackets, 

In  a  curve  like  the  bow  moon, 

Watching  Chou-Kiou  advancing  to  the  furnace. 

And  Meng  Tsung  stands, 


76  LEGENDS 

Fearfully  watching. 

No  one  must  touch, 

No  one  must  caution, 

No  one  must  pray. 

It  is  between  Chou-Kiou  and  the  Gods. 

How  do  her  ancestors  in  the  thirty-three  Heavens? 

Do  they  watch? 

Do  they  listen? 

Do  they  desire  and  remain  silent? 

Ten  times  round  her  hands 

The  cloth  is  wrapped. 

Yet  will  they  be  blistered  - 

But  it  is  cool ! 

Cold! 

And  the  seggar  falls  apart  without  a  touch. 

Fragrant  Goddess, 

Whose  heart  is  of  snow  and  rubies, 

Is  this  the  figure  made  by  Chou-Kiou? 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  77 

Not  so,  certainly. 

Slimmer, 

Lovelier, 

More  quaintly  golden. 

This  face  is  clouds  and  flowers, 

These  eyes  are  wind  and  flame, 

This  body  is  jade  and  silver. 

Her  dress  is  the  smoky  green  of  Autumn  lakes 

Flashed  and  tinted  to  immediate  scarlet, 

It  is  embroidered  with  the  hundred  shous. 

Poised  is  this  figure, 

Balanced  like  a  music 

Of  flageolets  and  harps  under  the  Dawn. 

Men  cover  their  faces, 

Here  is  a  beauty  to  turn  the  dart  of  arrows. 

But  Chou-Kiou's  figure  was  single, 

This  is  triplicate. 

Attendants  guard  the  dazzling  Goddess. 

One  (who  dares  to  see  it!)  Chou-Kiou, 


78  LEGENDS 

In  her  peach-bloom  dress  with  the  willow-coloured 

girdle, 

And  clasped  and  cherished  in  her  hands 
The  sacred  peach. 
The  other  is  a  man, 
Blue-dressed  as  in  running  waves, 
Bronze  and  crimson  with  the  rake  of  the  sea. 
The  gate-keepers  shout  his  name, 
Swift  are  his  steps, 
Like  songs  for  gladness 
His  footsteps, 

He  is  a  straight  shaft  of  sapphire, 
He  is  a  peacock  feather  borne  upon  a  spear. 
He  and  she  before  the  Goddess, 
Heads  in  the  dust. 
Not  alone  do  the  bamboos  flower; 
Here  are  blossoms  and  fruit. 
Kuan- Yin,  Goddess  of  Mercy,  of  Sailors,  of  Sterile 

Women, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PORCELAIN  79 

For  what  they  pray  let  them  have  full  answer: 
Guide  them  as  with  a  torch, 
Scatter  snow  and  heat  like  the  cool  of  the  moon, 
Defend  them  against  enemies  as  a  moat  or  a  city, 
Save  them  in  danger  as  a  father  or  mother, 
Quicken  them  as  rain  and  sun, 
Bless  the  seed  of  this  man  as  corn  under  a  rich  sun, 
Bless  the  womb  of  this  woman  as  fishes  are  blessed  by 
the  sea. 

Then  the  multitude  rose  up 

And  proclaimed  them  mighty. 

They  placed  her  in  the  scarlet  palanquin 

And  brought  her  before  him. 

They  lit  the  flower  candles; 

With  painted  lanterns  in  broad  daylight  they  lined  the 

roads. 

Drums  and  musicians  played  forever, 
And  fireworks  blazed  in  the  heart  of  the  sky. 


80  LEGENDS 

So  the  day  fell 
And  the  night  came, 

And  the  lizard-skin  drums  struck  midnight, 
And  the  marriage  was  accomplished. 
Sweetly  the  moon  slept  in  the  willow-trees, 
And  the  man  and  the  woman  slept  under  the  green 
eyelids  of  the  Dawn. 


When  I  finished  the  book,  night  had  come. 

I  could  not  part  with  it,  so  I  bought  it  for  two  ounces  of 

silver. 

Did  I  overprize  it,  do  you  think? 
It  is  only  a  tale  of  old,  dead  China. 


MANY  SWANS  81 


MANY  SWANS 
SUN  MYTH  OF  THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  INDIANS 

WHEN  the  Goose  Moon  rose  and  walked  upon  a  pale 
sky,  and  water  made  a  noise  once  more  beneath 
the  ice  on  the  river,  his  heart  was  sick  with  long- 
ing for  the  great  good  of  the  sun.  One  Winter 
again  had  passed,  one  Winter  like  the  last.  A  long 
sea  with  waves  biting  each  other  under  grey 
clouds,  a  shroud  of  snow  from  ocean  to  forest, 
snow  mumbling  stories  of  bones  and  driftwood 
beyond  his  red  fire.  He  desired  space,  light;  he 
cried  to  himself  about  himself,  he  made  songs  of 
sorrow  and  wept  in  the  corner  of  his  house.  He 
gave  his  children  toys  to  keep  them  away  from 
him.  His  eyes  were  dim  following  the  thin  sun. 
He  said  to  his  wife :  "  I  want  that  sun.  Some  day  I 


82  LEGENDS 

shall  go  to  see  it."  And  she  said:  "Peace,  be  still. 
You  will  wake  the  children." 

So  he  waited,  and  the  Whirlwind  Moon  came,  a  cres- 
cent —  mounted,  and  marched  down  beyond  the 
morning,  and  was  gone.  Then  the  Extreme  Cold 
Moon  came  and  shone,  it  mounted,  moved  night 
by  night  into  morning  and  faded  through  day  to 
darkness.  He  watched  the  Old  Moon  pass,  he  saw 
the  Eagle  Moon  come  and  go.  Slowly  the  moons 
wound  across  the  snow,  and  many  nights  he  could 
not  see  them,  he  could  only  hear  the  waves  raving 
foam  and  fury  until  dawn. 

Now  the  Goose  Moon  told  him  things,  but  his  blood 
lay  sluggish  within  him  until  the  moon  stood  full 
and  apart  in  the  sky.  His  wife  asked  why  he  was 
silent.  "I  have  wept  my  eyes  dry,"  he  answered. 
"Give  me  my  cedar  bow  and  my  two-winged 
arrows  with  the  copper  points.  I  will  go  into 


MANY  SWANS  83 

the  forest  and  kill  a  moose,  and  bring  fresh  meat 
for  the  children." 

All  day  he  stalked  the  forest.  He  saw  the  marks  of 
bears'  claws  on  the  trees.  He  saw  the  wide  tracks 
of  a  lynx,  and  the  little  slot-slot  of  a  jumping 
rabbit,  but  nothing  came  along.  Then  he 
made  a  melancholy  song  for  himself:  "My  name 
is  Many  Swans,  but  I  have  seen  neither  sparrow 
nor  rabbit,  neither  duck  nor  crane.  I  will  go 
home  and  sit  by  the  fire  like  a  woman  and  spin 
cedar  bark  for  fish-lines." 

Then  silver  rain  ran  upon  him  through  the  branches 
from  the  moon,  and  he  stepped  upon  open  grass 
and  laughed  at  the  touch  of  it  under  his  foot.  "I 
will  shoot  the  moon,"  he  thought,  "and  cut  it 
into  cakes  for  the  children." 

He  laid  an  arrow  on  his  bow  and  shot,  and  the  copper 
tip  made  it  shine  like  a  star  flying.  He  watched 


84  LEGENDS 

to  see  it  fall,  but  it  did  not.  He  shot  again,  and 
his  arrow  was  a  bright  star  until  he  lost  it  in 
the  brilliance  of  the  moon.  Soon  he  had  shot  all 
his  arrows,  and  he  stood  gaping  up  at  the  moon- 
shine wishing  he  had  not  lost  them. 
Then  Many  Swans  laughed  again  because  his  feet 
touched  grass,  not  snow.  And  he  gathered  twigs 
and  stuck  them  in  his  hair,  and  saw  his  shadow 
like  a  tree  walking  there.  But  something  tapped 
the  twigs,  he  stood  tangled  in  something.  With 
his  hand  he  felt  it,  it  was  the  feather  head  of  an 
arrow.  It  dangled  from  the  sky,  and  the  copper 
tip  jangled  upon  wood  and  twinkled  brightly. 
This  —  that  —  and  other  twinkles,  pricking 
against  the  soft  flow  of  the  moon,  and  the  wind 
crooned  in  the  arrow-feathers  and  tinkled  the 
bushes  in  his  hair. 

Many  Swans  laid  his  hand  on  the  arrow  and  began  to 


MANY  SWANS  85 

climb  —  up  —  up  —  a  long  time.  The  earth  lay 
beneath  him  wide  and  blue,  he  climbed  through 
white  moonlight  and  purple  air  until  he  fell  asleep 
from  weariness. 

Sunlight  struck  sidewise  on  a  chain  of  arrows;  below 
were  cold  clouds;  above,  a  sky  blooming  like  an 
open  flower  and  he  aiming  to  the  heart  of  it. 
Many  Swans  saw  that  up  was  far,  and  down  was 
also  far,  but  he  cried  to  himself  that  he  had  begun 
his  journey  to  the  sun.  Then  he  pulled  a  bush 
from  his  hair,  and  the  twigs  had  leaved  and 
fruited,  and  there  were  salmon-berries  dancing 
beneath  the  leaves.  "My  father,  the  sun,  is 
good,"  said  Many  Swans,  and  he  eat  the  berries 
and  went  on  climbing  the  arrows  into  the  heart  of 
the  sky. 

He  climbed  till  the  sun  set  and  the  moon  rose,  and  at 
midmost  moon  he  fell  asleep  to  the  sweeping  of 
the  arrow-ladder  like  a  cradle  in  the  wind. 


86  LEGENDS 

When  dawn  struck  gold  across  the  ladder,  he  awoke. 
"It  is  Summer,"  said  Many  Swans,  "I  cannot  go 
back,  it  must  be  more  days  down  than  I  have 
travelled.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  see  my  chil- 
dren, for  I  Have  no  meat  for  them."  Then  he 
remembered  the  bushes,  and  pulled  another  from 
his  hair,  and  there  were  blue  huckleberries  shining 
like  polished  wood  in  the  midst  of  leaves.  "The 
sun  weaves  the  seasons,"  thought  Many  Swans, 
"I  have  been  under  and  over  the  warp  of  the 
world,  now  I  am  above  the  world,"  and  he  went 
on  climbing  into  the  white  heart  of  the  sky. 

Another  night  and  day  he  climbed,  and  he  eat  red 
huckleberries  from  his  last  bush,  and  went  on  — 
up  and  up  —  his  feet  scratching  on  the  ladder 
with  a  great  noise  because  of  the  hush  all  round 
him.  When  he  reached  an  edge,  he  stepped  over 
it  carefully,  for  edges  are  thin  and  he  did  not  wish 
to  fall.  He  found  a  tall  pine-tree  by  a  pond.  "Be- 


MANY  SWANS  87 

yond  can  wait,"  reasoned  Many  Swans,  "this  is 
surely  a  far  country."  And  he  lay  down  to  sleep 
under  the  pine-tree,  and  it  was  the  fourth  sleep  he 
had  had  since  he  went  hunting  moose  to  bring 
meat  to  his  family. 

The  shadow  crept  away  from  him,  and  the  sun  came 
and  sat  upon  his  eyelids,  so  that  by  and  by  he 
opened  them  and  rubbed  his  eyes  because  a 
woman  stared  at  him,  and  she  was  beautiful  as  a 
salmon  leaping  in  Spring.  Her  skirt  was  woven  of 
red  and  white  cedar  bark,  she  had  carved  silver 
bracelets  and  copper  bracelets  set  with  haliotis 
shell,  and  ear-rings  of  sharks'  teeth.  She  sparkled 
like  a  river  salmon,  and  her  smile  was  water  tip- 
ping to  a  light  South  breeze.  She  pleased  the 
heart  of  Many  Swans  so  that  fear  was  not  in  him, 
only  longing  to  take  her  for  himself  as  a  man  does 
a  woman,  and  he  asked  her  name.  "Grass-Bush- 


88  LEGENDS 

and-Blossom  is  my  name,"  she  answered.  "I  am 
come  after  you.  My  grandmother  has  sent  me 
to  bring  you  to  her  house."  "And  who  is  your 
grandmother?"  asked  Many  Swans.  But  the  girl 
shook  her  head,  and  took  a  pinch  of  earth  from 
the  ground  and  threw  it  toward  the  sun.  "She 
has  many  names.  The  grass  knows  her,  and  the 
trees,  and  the  fishes  in  the  sea.  I  call  her  *  grand- 
mother,' but  they  speak  of  her  as  'The-One-Who- 
Walks-All-Over-the-Sky.'"  Many  Swans  mar- 
velled and  said  nothing,  for  things  are  different  in 
a  far  country. 

They  walked  together,  and  the  man  hungered  for  the 
woman  and  could  not  wait.  But  she  said  no  word, 
and  he  eat  up  her  beauty  as  though  it  were  a  ripe 
foam-berry  and  still  went  fasting  until  his  knees 
trembled,  and  his  heart  was  like  hot  dust,  and  his 
hands  ached  to  thrust  upon  her  and  turn  her 
toward  him.  So  they  went,  and  Many  Swans  for- 


MANY  SWANS  89 

got  his  wife  and  children  and  the  earth  hanging 
below  the  sharp  edge  of  the  sky. 


The  South  wind  sat  on  a  rock  and  never  ceased  to 
blow,  locking  the  branches  of  the  trees  together; 
a  flock  of  swans  rose  out  of  the  South-East,  one 
and  seven,  making  strange,  changing  lines  across 
a  smooth  sky.  Wild  flax-blossoms  ran  blue  over 
the  bases  of  black  and  red  totem  poles.  The  col- 
ours were  strong  as  blood  and  death,  they  rattled 
like  painted  drums  against  the  eyesight.  "  Many 
Swans!"  said  the  girl  and  smiled.  "Blood  and 
death,"  drummed  the  totem  poles.  "Alas!" 
nodded  the  flax.  The  man  heeded  nothing  but  the 
woman  and  the  soles  of  his  feet  beating  on  new 
ground. 

The  houses  were  carved  with  the  figures  of  the  Spring 
Salmon.  They  were  carved  in  the  form  of  a  rain- 


90  LEGENDS 

bow.  Hooked  noses  stood  out  above  doorways, 
crooked  wooden  men  crouched,  frog-shaped,  gaz- 
ing under  low  eaves.  It  was  a  beautiful  town, 
ringing  with  colours,  singing  brightly,  terribly,  in 
the  smooth  light.  All  the  way  was  sombre  and 
gay,  and  the  man  walked  and  said  nothing. 

They  came  to  a  house  painted  black  and  carved  with 
stars.  In  the  centre  was  a  round  moon  with  a  door 
in  it.  So  they  entered  and  sat  beside  the  fire,  and 
the  woman  gave  the  man  fish-roes  and  goose- 
berries, but  his  desire  burnt  him  and  he  could 
not  eat. 

Grass-Bush-and-Blossom  saw  his  trouble,  and  she  led 
him  to  a  corner,  and  showed  him  many  things, 
There  were  willow  arrows  and  quivers  for  them. 
There  were  mountain-goat  blankets  and  painted 
blankets  of  two  elk-skins,  there  were  buffalo- 
skins,  and  dresssed  buckskins,  and  deerskins  with 
young,  soft  hair.  But  Many  Swans  cared  for 


MANY  SWANS  91 

nothing  but  the  swing  of  the  woman's  bark  skirt, 
and  the  sting  of  her  loveliness  which  gave  him  no 
peace. 

Grass-Bush-and-Blossom  led  him  to  another  corner, 
and  showed  him  crest  helmets,  and  wooden  ar- 
mour; she  showed  him  coppers  like  red  rhododen- 
dron blooms,  and  plumes  of  eagles'  wings.  She 
gave  him  clubs  of  whalebone  to  handle,  and  cedar 
trumpets  which  blow  a  sound  cool  and  sweet  as 
the  noise  of  bees.  But  Many  Swans  found  no  ease 
in  looking  save  at  her  arms  between  the  bracelets, 
and  his  trouble  grew  and  pressed  upon  him  until 
he  felt  strangled. 

She  led  him  farther  and  showed  him  a  canoe  painted 
silver  and  vermilion  with  white  figures  of  fish 
upon  it,  and  the  gunwales  fore  and  aft  were  set 
with  the  teeth  of  the  sea-otter.  She  lifted  out  the 
paddles,  the  blades  were  shaped  like  hearts  and 
striped  with  fire  hues.  She  said,  "Choose.  These 


92  LEGENDS 

are  mine  and  my  grandmother's.  Take  what  you 
will."  But  Many  Swans  was  filled  with  the  glory 
of  her  standing  as  a  young  tree  about  to  blossom, 
and  he  took  her  and  felt  her  sway  and  fold  about 
him  with  the  tightness  of  new  leaves.  "This"  — 
said  Many  Swans,  "this  —  for  am  I  not  a  man!" 
So  they  abode  and  the  day  ran  gently  past  them, 
slipping  as  river  water,  and  evening  came,  and 
someone  entered,  darkening  the  door. 
Then  Grass-Bush-and-Blossom  wrapped  her  cedar- 
bark  skirt  about  her  and  sprang  up,  and  her  silver 
and  copper  ornaments  rang  sweetly  with  her 
moving.  The-One-Who-Walks-All-Over-the-Sky 
looked  at  Many  Swans.  "You  have  not  waited," 
she  said.  "Alas!  It  is  an  evil  beginning.  My  son, 
my  son,  I  wished  to  love  you."  But  he  was  glad 
and  thought:  "It  is  a  querulous  old  woman,  I 
shall  heed  her  no  more  than  the  crackling  of  a  fire 
of  frost-bitten  twigs." 


MANY  SWANS  93 

The  old  woman  went  behind  the  door  and  hung  up 
something.  It  pleased  him.  It  was  shining.  When 
he  woke  in  the  night,  he  saw  it  in  the  glow  of  the 
fire.  He  liked  it,  and  he  liked  the  skins  he  lay  on 
and  the  woman  who  lay  with  him.  He  thought 
only  of  these  things. 

In  the  morning,  the  old  woman  unhooked  the  shining 
object  and  went  out,  and  he  turned  about  to  his 
wife  and  said  sharp,  glad  words  to  her  and  she  to 
him,  and  the  sun  shone  into  the  house  until  eve- 
ning, and  in  the  night  again  he  was  happy,  be- 
cause of  the  thing  that  glittered  and  flashed  and 
moved  to  and  fro,  clashing  softly  on  the  wall. 

The  days  were  many.  He  did  not  count  them.  Every 
morning  the  old  woman  took  out  the  shining 
thing,  and  every  evening  she  brought  it  home, 
and  all  night  it  shone  and  cried  "  Ching-a-ling  "  as 
it  dangled  against  the  wall. 


94  LEGENDS 

Moons  and  moons  went  by,  no  doubt.   Many  Swans 

did  not  reckon  them  out.    Was  there  an  earth? 

Was  there  a  sky?   He  remembered  nothing.    He 

did  not  try.  And  then  one  day,  wandering  along 

the  street  of  carved  houses,  he  heard  a  song.  He 

heard  the  beat  of  rattles  and  drums,  and  the  shrill 

humming  of  trumpets  blown  to  a  broken  rhythm : 

"Haioo'a!  HaioS! 

Many  salmon  are  coming  ashore, 

They  are  coming  ashore  to  you,  the  post  of 

our  heaven, 
They  are  dancing  from  the  salmon's  country 

to  the  shore. 

I  come  to  dance  before  you  at  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  world,  overtowering,  outshin- 
ing, surpassing  all:  I,  the  Salmon! 
Haioo'a!  Haioo!" 
And  the  drums  rumbled  like  the  first  thunder  of  a 


MANY  SWANS  95 

year,  and  the  rattles  pattered  like  rain  on  flower 
petals,  and  the  trumpets  hummed  as  wind  hums 
in  round-leafed  trees;  and  people  ran,  jumping, 
out  of  the  Spring  Salmon  house  and  leapt  to  the 
edge  of  the  sky  and  disappeared,  falling  quickly, 
calling  the  song  to  one  another  as  they  fell  so  that 
the  sound  of  it  continued  rising  up  for  a  long  time. 

Many  Swans  listened,  and  he  recollected  that  when 
the  Spring  salmon  jump,  the  children  say: 
"Ayuu!  Do  it  again!"  He  thought  of  his  chil- 
dren and  his  wife  whom  he  had  left  on  the  earth, 
and  wondered  who  had  brought  them  meat,  who 
had  caught  fish  for  them,  and  he  was  sad  at  his 
thoughts  and  wept,  saying:  "I  want  to  shoot 
birds  for  my  children.  I  want  to  spear  trout  for 
my  children."  So  he  went  back  to  his  house,  and 
his  feet  dragged  behind  him  like  nets  drawn  across 
sand. 

He  lay  down  upon  his  bed  and  grieved,  because  he  had 


96  LEGENDS 

no  children  in  the  sky,  and  because  the  wife  of 
his  youth  was  lost  to  him.  He  would  not  eat, 
but  lay  with  his  head  covered  and  made  no 
sound. 

Then  Grass-Bush-and-Blossom  asked  him:  "Why  do 
you  grieve?"  But  he  was  silent.  And  again  she 
said:  "Why  do  you  grieve?"  But  he  answered 
nothing.  And  she  asked  him  many  times,  until  at 
last  he  told  her  of  his  children,  of  his  other  wife 
whom  he  had  left,  and  she  was  pitiful  because  she 
loved  him. 

When  the  old  woman  came,  she  also  said:  "What  ails 
your  husband  that  he  lies  there  saying  nothing?" 
And  Grass-Bush-and-Blossom  answered:  "He  is 
homesick.  We  must  let  him  depart." 

Many  Swans  heard  what  she  said,  and  he  got  up  and 
made  himself  ready.  Now  the  old  woman  looked 
sadly  at  him.  "My  son,"  she  said,  "I  told  you  it 
was  a  bad  beginning.  But  I  wish  to  love  you. 


MANY  SWANS  97 

Choose  among  these  things  what  you  will  have, 
and  return  to  your  people." 

Many  Swans  pointed  to  the  shining  thing  behind  the 
door  and  said:  "I  will  have  that."  But  the  old 
woman  would  not  give  it  to  him.  She  offered  him 
spears  of  bone,  and  yew  bows,  and  arrows  winged 
with  ducks'  feathers.  But  he  would  not  have 
them.  She  offered  him  strings  of  blue  and  white 
shells,  and  a  copper  canoe  with  a  sternboard  of 
copper  and  a  copper  bailer.  He  would  not  take 
them.  He  wanted  the  thing  that  glittered  and 
cried  "  Ching-a-ling "  as  it  dangled  against  the 
wall.  She  offered  him  all  that  was  in  the  house. 
But  he  liked  that  great  thing  that  was  shining 
there.  When  that  thing  turned  round  it  was 
shining  so  that  one  had  to  close  one's  eyes.  He 
said:  "That  only  will  I  have."  Then  she  gave  it 
to  him,  saying:  "You  wanted  it.  I  wished  to  love 


98  LEGENDS 

you,  and  I  do  love  you."   She  hung  it  on  him. 
"Now  go  home." 

Many  Swans  ran  swiftly,  he  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  sky, 
there  he  found  the  ladder  of  the  rainbow.  He  put 
his  foot  on  it  and  went  down,  and  he  felt  strong 
and  able  to  do  anything.  He  forgot  the  sky  and 
thought  only  of  the  earth. 

Many  Swans  made  a  song  as  he  went  down  the 
rainbow  ladder.  He  sang  with  a  loud  voice : 
"I  will  go  and  tear  to  pieces  Mount  Stevens,  I 

will  use  it  for  stones  for  my  fire. 
I  will  go  and  break  Mount  Qa'tsta'is,  I  will 

use  it  for  stones  for  my  fire." 

All  day  and  all  night  he  went  down,  and  he  was  so 
strong  he  did  not  need  to  sleep.  The  next  day  he 
made  a  new  song.  He  shouted  it  with  a  great 
noise : 


MANY  SWANS  99 

"I  am  going  all  round  the  world, 
I  am  at  the  centre  of  the  world, 
I  am  the  post  of  the  world, 
On  account  of  what  I  am  carrying  in  my 

hand." 
This  pleased  him,  and  he  sang  it  all  day  and  was  not 

tired  at  all. 

Four  nights  and  days  he  was  going  down  the  ladder, 
and  every  day  he  made  a  song,  and  the  last  was 
the  best.  This  was  it: 

"Oh  wonder!  He  is  making  a  turmoil  on  the 

earth. 
Oh  wonder!    He  makes  the  noise  of  falling 

objects  on  the  earth. 
Oh  wonder!  He  makes  the  noise  of  breaking 

objects  on  the  earth." 

He  did  not  really  mean  this,  but  it  was  a  good  song. 
That  is  the  way  with  people  who  think  themselves 
clever.  Many  Swans  sang  this  song  a  great  many 


100  LEGENDS 

times,  and  on  the  fourth  day,  when  the  dawn  was 
red,  he  touched  the  earth  and  walked  off  upon  it. 


When  Many  Swans  arrived  on  the  earth,  he  was  not 
very  near  his  village.  He  stood  beneath  a  sea-cliff, 
and  the  rocks  of  the  cliff  were  sprinkled  with  scar- 
let moss  as  it  might  have  been  a  fall  of  red  snow, 
and  lilac  moss  smouldered  between  boulders  of 
pink  granite.  Far  out,  the  sea  sparkled  all  colours 
like  an  abalone  shell,  and  red  fish  sprang  from  it 
—  one  and  another,  over  its  surface.  As  he  gazed, 
a  shadow  slipped  upon  the  water,  and,  looking  up, 
he  saw  a  raven  flying  and  overturning  as  it  flew. 
Red  fish,  black  raven  —  blood  and  death  —  but 
Many  Swans  called  "Haioho-ho!"  and  danced 
a  long  time  on  the  sea-sand  because  he  felt  happy 
in  his  heart. 

He  heard  a  robin  singing,  and  as  it  sang  he  walked 


MANY  SWANS  101 

along  the  shore  and  counted  his  fingers  for  the 
headlands  he  must  pass  to  reach  home.  He  saw 
the  canoes  come  out  to  fish,  he  said  the  names  of 
his  friends  who  should  be  in  them.  He  thought  of 
his  house  and  the  hearth  strewn  with  white  shells 
and  sand.  When  the  canoes  of  twelve  rowers 
passed,  he  tried  to  signal  them,  but  they  went  by 
too  far  from  land.  The  way  seemed  short,  for  all 
day  he  told  himself  stories  of  what  people  would 
say  to  him.  "I  shall  be  famous,  my  fame  will 
reach  to  the  ends  of  the  world.  People  will  try  to 
imitate  me.  Every  one  will  desire  to  possess  my 
power."  So  Many  Swans  said  foolish  things  to 
himself,  and  the  day  seemed  short  until  the  eve- 
ning when  he  came  in  sight  of  his  village. 

At  the  dusky  time  of  night,  he  came  to  it,  and  he  heard 
singing,  so  he  knew  his  people  were  having  a  fes- 
tival. He  could  hear  the  dance-sticks  clattering  on 


102  LEGENDS 

the  cedar  boards  and  the  moon-rattles  whirling, 
and  he  could  see  the  smoke  curling  out  of  the 
smoke-holes.  Then  he  shouted  very  much  and 
ran  fast;  but, as  he  ran,  the  thing  which  he  carried 
in  his  hands  shook  and  cried:  "We  shall  strike 
your  town."  Then  Many  Swans  went  mad;  he 
turned,  swirling  like  a  great  cloud,  he  rose  as  a 
pillar  of  smoke  and  bent  in  the  wind  as  smoke 
bends,  he  streamed  as  bands  of  black  smoke,  and 
out  of  him  darted  flames,  red-mouthed  flames,  so 
that  they  scorched  his  hair.  His  hands  were  full 
of  blood,  and  he  yelled  "Break!  Break!  Break! 
Break!"  and  did  not  know  whose  voice  it  was 
shouting. 

There  was  a  tree,  and  a  branch  standing  out  from  it, 
and  fire  came  down  and  hung  on  the  end  of  the 
branch.  He  thought  it  was  copper  which  swung 
on  the  tree,  because  it  twirled  and  had  a  hard 
edge.  Then  it  split  as  though  a  wedge  had  riven 


MANY  SWANS  103 

it,  and  burst  into  purple  flame.  The  tree  was  con- 
sumed, and  the  fire  leapt  laughing  upon  the  houses 
and  poured  down  through  the  roofs  upon  the 
people.  The  flame-mouths  stuck  themselves  to 
the  houses  and  sucked  the  life  from  all  the  people, 
the  flames  swallowed  themselves  and  brought 
forth  little  flames  which  ran  a  thousand  ways  like 
young  serpents  just  out  of  their  eggs,  till  the  fire 
girdled  the  village  and  the  water  in  front  curdled 
and  burned  like  oil. 

Then  Many  Swans  knew  what  he  had  done,  and  he 
tried  to  throw  away  his  power  which  was  killing 
everybody.  But  he  could  not  do  it.  The  people 
lay  there  dead,  and  his  wife  and  children  among 
the  dead  people.  His  heart  was  sick,  and  he  cried: 
"The  weapon  flew  into  my  hands  with  which  I 
am  murdering,"  and  he  tried  to  throw  it  away, 
but  it  stuck  to  his  flesh.  He  tried  to  cut  it  apart 
with  his  knife,  but  the  blade  turned  and  blunted. 


104  LEGENDS 

He  cried  bitterly:  "Ka!  Ka!  Ka!  Ka!"  and 
tried  to  break  what  he  wore  on  a  stone,  but  it  did 
not  break.  Then  he  cut  off  his  hair  and  blackened 
his  face,  and  turned  inland  to  the  spaces  of  the 
forest,  for  his  heart  was  dead  with  his  people. 
And  the  moon  followed  him  over  the  tops  of  the 
trees,  but  he  hated  the  moon  because  it  reminded 
huii  of  the  sky. 


A  long  time  Many  Swans  wandered  in  the  forest. 
White-headed  eagles  flew  over  the  trees  and 
called  down  to  him :  "There  is  the  man  who  killed 
everybody."  By  night  the  owls  hooted  to  each 
other:  "The  man  who  sleeps  has  blood  on  him,  his 
mouth  is  full  of  blood,  he  let  loose  his  power  on 
his  own  people."  Many  Swans  beat  upon  his 
breast  and  pleaded  with  the  owls:  "You  with  ears 
far  apart  who  hear  everything,  you  the  owls,  it 


MANY  SWANS  105 

was  not  I  who  killed,  but  this  evil  thing  I  carry 
and  which  I  cannot  put  down."  But  the  owls 
laughed,  shrill,  mournful,  broken  laughs,  repeat- 
ing the  words  they  had  said,  so  that  Many  Swans 
could  not  sleep  and  in  the  morning  he  was  so 
weak  he  shook  when  he  walked. 

He  walked  among  pines  which  flowed  before  him  in 
straight,  opening  lines  like  water,  and  the  wind  in 
the  pine-branches  wearied  his  soul  as  he  heard  it 
all  day  long.  At  first  he  eat  nothing,  but  when  he 
stumbled  and  fell  for  faintness  he  gathered  cur- 
rants and  partridge-berries  and  so  made  his  feet 
carry  him  on. 

He  came  to  a  wood  of  red  firs  where  fire  had  been 
before  him.  The  heart  wood  of  the  firs  was  all 
burnt  out,  but  the  trees  stood  on  stilts  of  sapwood 
and  mocked  the  man  who  slew  with  fire. 

He  passed  through  woods  of  spear-leaf  trees,  with 
sharp  vines  head-high  all  about  them.  He  thrust 


106  LEGENDS 

the  thing  he  carried  into  the  vines  and  tried  to  let 
go  of  it,  but  it  would  not  stay  tangled  and  came 
away  in  his  hand. 

He  heard  the  slap  of  beavers'  tails  on  water,  and  saw 
muskrats  building  cabins  with  the  stalks  of  wild 
rice  in  shoal  water,  but  they  scattered  as  he  came 
near.  The  little  animals  fled  before  him  in  fear, 
chattering  to  each  other.  Even  the  bears  deserted 
the  huckleberry  bushes  when  they  heard  the  fall 
of  his  foot,  so  that  he  walked  alone.  Above  him, 
the  waxwings  were  catching  flies  in  the  spruce- 
tops,  they  were  happy  because  it  was  Summer  and 
warm,  they  were  the  only  creatures  too  busy  to 
look  down  at  the  man  who  moved  on  as  one  who 
never  stops,  making  his  feet  go  always  because 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

By  and  by  the  trees  thinned,  and  Many  Swans  saw 
beyond  them  to  a  country  of  tall  grass.  He  rested 


MANY  SWANS  107 

here  some  time  eating  fox-grapes  and  blackberries, 
for  indeed  he  was  almost  famished,  and  weary 
with  the  sickness  of  solitude.  He  thought  of  the 
ways  of  men,  and  hungered  after  speech  and  com- 
forting. But  he  saw  no  man,  and  the  prairie 
frightened  him,  rolling  endlessly  to  the  sky. 

At  last  his  blood  quickened  again,  and  the  longing 
for  people  beat  a  hard  pulse  in  his  throat  so  that 
he  rose  and  went  on,  seeking  where  he  might  find 
men.  For  days  he  sought,  following  the  trails  of 
wild  horses  and  buffalo,  tripping  among  the  crawl- 
ing pea-vines,  bruised  and  baffled,  blind  with  the 
sharp  shimmer  of  the  grass. 

Then  suddenly  they  came,  riding  out  of  the  distance 
on  both  sides  of  him.  These  men  wore  eagle- 
plume  bonnets,  and  their  horses  went  so  fast 
he  could  not  see  their  legs.  They  ran  glittering 
toward  one  another,  whooping  and  screaming, 
and  the  horses'  tails  streamed  out  behind  them 


108  LEGENDS 

stiffly  like  bunches  of  bones.  Each  man  lay  prone 
on  his  horse  and  shot  arrows,  hawk-feathered 
arrows,  owl-feathered  arrows,  and  they  were  ter- 
rible in  swiftness  because  the  feathers  had  not 
been  cut  or  burned  to  make  them  low. 

The  arrows  flew  across  one  another  like  a  swarm  of 
grasshoppers  leaping,  and  the  men  foamed  for- 
ward as  waves  foam  at  a  double  tide. 

They  came  near,  bright  men,  fine  as  whips,  striding 
lithe  cat  horses.  One  rode  a  spotted  horse,  and  on 
his  head  was  an  upright  plume  of  the  tail-feathers 
of  the  black  eagle.  One  rode  a  buckskin  horse, 
long-winded  and  chary  as  a  panther.  One  rode  a 
sorrel  horse  painted  with  zigzag  lightnings.  One 
rode  a  clay-coloured  horse,  and  the  figure  of  a 
kingfisher  was  stamped  in  blue  on  its  shoulder. 
Wildcat  running  horses,  and  their  hoofs  rang  like 
thunder-drums  on  the  ground,  and  the  men  yelled 
with  brass  voices : 


MANY  SWANS  109 

"We  who  live  are  coming. 

Ai-ya-ya-yai! 

We  are  coming  to  kill. 

Ai-ya-ya-yai! 

We  are  coming  with  the  snake  arrows, 

We  are  coming  with  the  tomahawks 

Which  swallow  their  faces. 

Ai-ya-ya-yai! 

We  will  hack  our  enemies. 

Ai-ya-ya-yai! 

We  will  take  many  scalps. 

Ai-ya-ya-yai! 

We  will  kill  —  kill  —  till  every  one  is  dead. 

Ai-ya-ya-ya-yai ! " 

Many  Swans  lay  in  a  buffalo  wallow  and  hid,  and  a 
white  fog  slid  down  from  the  North  and  covered 
the  prairie.  For  a  little  time  he  heard  the  war- 
whoops  and  the  pit-pit  of  hitting  arrows,  and  then 
he  heard  nothing,  and  he  lay  beneath  the  cold  fog 


110  LEGENDS 

hurting  his  ears  with  listening.  When  the  sky  was 
red  in  the  evening  and  the  fog  was  lifted,  he 
shifted  himself  and  looked  above  the  grass. 
"Alas!  Alas!"  wept  Many  Swans,  "the  teeth  of 
their  arrows  were  like  dogs'  teeth.  They  have 
devoured  their  enemies."  For  nobody  was  there, 
but  the  arrows  were  sticking  up  straight  in  the 
ground.  Then  Many  Swans  went  a  long  way 
round  that  place  for  he  thought  that  the  stomachs 
of  the  arrows  must  be  full  of  blood.  And  so  he 
went  on  alone  over  the  prairie,  and  his  heart  was 
black  with  what  he  had  seen. 


A  stream  flowed  in  a  sunwise  turn  across  the  prairie, 
and  the  name  of  the  stream  was  "Burnt  Water," 
because  it  tasted  dark  like  smoke.  The  prairie  ran 
out  tongues  of  raw  colours  —  blue  of  camass,  red 
of  geranium,  yellow  of  parsley  —  at  the  young 


MANY  SWANS  111 

green  grass.  The  prairie  flung  up  its  larks  on  a 
string  of  sunshine,  it  lay  like  a  catching-sheet 
beneath  the  black  breasts  balancing  down  on 
a  wind,  calling  "See  it!  See  it!  See  it!"  in  little 
round  voices. 

Antelope  and  buffalo. 

Threading  the  tall  green  grass  they  go, 

To  and  fro,  to  and  fro. 

And  painted  Indians  ride  in  a  row, 

With  arrow  and  bow,  arrow  and  bow, 

Hunting  the  antelope,  the  buffalo. 

Truly  they  made  a  gallant  show 

Across  the  prairie's  bright  green  flow, 

Warriors  painted  indigo, 

Brown  antelope,  black  buffalo, 

Long  ago. 


112  LEGENDS 

Now  when  he  heard  the  barking  of  dogs,  and  saw  the 
bundles  of  the  dead  lashed  to  the  cottonwood- 
trees,  Many  Swans  knew  that  he  was  near  a  vil- 
lage. He  stood  still,  for  he  dared  not  go  on  because 
of  the  thing  which  he  had  with  him.  He  said  to 
himself,  "My  mind  is  not  strong  enough  to  man- 
age it.  My  mind  is  afraid  of  it."  But  he  longed  to 
speak  with  men,  and  so  he  crept  a  little  nearer 
until  he  could  see  the  painted  tepees  standing  in 
the  edge  of  the  sunshine,  and  smell  the  smoke  of 
dried  sweet  grass.  Many  Swans  heard  the  tinkling 
of  small  bells  from  the  buffalo  tails  hung  on  the 
tepees,  he  saw  the  lodge  ears  move  gently  in  the 
breeze.  He  heard  talk,  the  voices  of  men,  and  he 
cried  aloud  and  wept,  holding  his  hands  out 
toward  the  village. 

Then  the  thing  which  he  was^carrying  shook,  and  said : 
"We  shall  strike  that  town."  Many  Swans  heard 


MANY  SWANS  113 

it,  and  he  tried  to  keep  quiet.  He  tried  to  throw 
the  thing  down,  but  his  hands  closed.  He  could 
not  keep  his  mind,  and  his  senses  flew  away 
so  that  he  was  crazy.  He  heard  a  great  voice 
shouting:  "Break!  Break!  Break!  Break!"  but 
he  did  not  know  that  it  was  his  own  voice. 
Back  over  the  prairie  sprang  up  a  round  cloud,  and 
fire  rose  out  of  the  heart  of  the  grass.  The  reds 
and  yellows  of  the  flowers  exploded  into  flame, 
showers  of  sparks  rattled  on  the  metal  sky,  whicll 
turned  purple  and  hurtled  itself  down  upon  the 
earth.  Winds  charged  the  fire,  lashing  it  with  long 
thongs  of  green  lightning,  herding  the  flames  over 
the  high  grass;  and  the  fire  screamed  and  danced 
and  blew  blood  whistles,  and  the  scarlet  feet  of  the 
fire  clinked  a  tune  of  ghost-bells  on  the  shells  of 
the  dry  cane  brakes.  Animals  ran  —  ran  —  ran 
—  and  were  overtaken,  shaken  grass  glittered  up 
with  a  roar  and  spilled  its  birds  like  burnt  paper 


114  LEGENDS 

into  the  red  air.  The  eagle's  wing  melted  where  it 
flew,  the  hills  of  the  prairie  grew  mountain-high, 
amazed  with  light,  and  were  obscured.  The 
people  in  the  village  ran  —  ran  —  and  the  fire 
shot  them  down  with  its  red  and  gold  arrows  and 
whirled  on,  crumpling  the  tepees  so  that  the  skins 
of  them  popped  like  corn.  Then  the  bodies  of  the 
dead  in  the  trees  took  fire  with  a  hard  smoke,  and 
the  burning  of  the  cottonwoods  choked  Many 
Swans  as  he  fled.  His  nostrils  smelt  the  dead,  and 
he  was  very  sick  and  could  not  move.  Then  the 
fire  made  a  ring  round  him,  and  he  stood  in  the 
midst  by  the  Burnt  River  and  wrung  his  hands 
until  the  skin  tore.  He  took  the  thing  he  wore  and 
tried  to  strip  it  off  in  the  fork  of  a  tree,  but  it  did 
not  come  off  at  all.  He  cried:  "Ka!  Ka!  Ka! 
Ka!"  and  leapt  into  the  river  and  tried  to  drown 
the  thing,  but  when  he  rose  it  rose  with  him 
and  came  out  of  the  water  gleaming  so  that  its 


MANY   SWANS  115 

wake  rippled  red  and  silver  a  long  way  down  the 
stream. 

Then  Many  Swans  lamented  bitterly  and  cried:  "The 
thing  I  wanted  is  bad,"  but  he  had  the  thing  and 
he  could  not  part  from  it.  He  rolled  in  the  stones 
and  the  bushes  to  scrape  it  off,  but  it  clung  to  him 
and  grew  in  his  flesh  like  hair.  Therefore  Many 
Swans  dragged  himself  up  to  go  on,  although 
the  heat  of  the  burnt  grass  scorched  his  feet  and 
everything  was  dead  about  him.  He  heard 
nothing,  for  there  was  nobody  to  mock  any  more. 


Mist  rises  along  the  river  bottoms,  and  ghost-voices 
hiss  an  old  death-song  to  a  false,  faint  tune.  The 
branches  of  willows  beat  on  the  moon,  pound, 
pound,  with  a  thin,  far  sound,  shaking  and 
shrilling  the  wonder  tale,  the  thunder  tale,  of  a 
nation's  killing: 


116  LEGENDS 

The  Nation's  drum  has  fallen  down. 
Beat  —  beat  —  and  a  double  beat! 
A.shes  are  the  grass  of  a  lodge-pole  town. 
Rattle  —  rattle  —  on  a  moon  that  is  sinking. 
Out  of  the  North  come  drift  winds  wailing. 
Beat  —  beat  —  and  a  double  beat! 
In  the  frost-blue  West,  a  crow  is  ailing. 
The  streams,  the  water  streams,  are  shrinking! 

He  gave  an  acre  and  we  gave  him  brass. 
Beat  —  beat  —  and  a  double  beat! 
Beautiful  and  bitter  are  the  roses  in  the  grass. 
Rattle  —  rattle  —  on  a  moon  that  is  sinking.  - 
A  knife  painted  red  and  a  knife  painted  black. 
Beat  —  beat  —  and  a  double  beat! 
Green  mounds  under  a  hackmatack. 
The  streams,  the  water  streams,  are  shrinking! 


MANY  SWANS  117 

Is  there  Summer  in  the  Spring?    Who  will 

bring  the  South? 

Beat  —  beat  —  and  a  double  beat! 
Shall   honey   drop    from    the  green  snake's 

mouth  ? 

Rattle  —  rattle  —  on  a  moon  that  is  sinking. 
A  red-necked  buzzard  in  an  incense  tree. 
Beat  —  beat  —  and  a  double  beat! 
And  a  poison  leaf  from  Gethsemane. 
The  streams,  the  water  streams,  are  shrinking. 


Now  Many  Swans  walked  over  cinders,  and  there  was 
no  sprig  or  root  that  the  fire  had  left.  Therefore 
he  grew  weaker  day  by  day,  and  at  night  he  lay 
awake  tortured  for  food,  and  he  prayed  to  the 
Earth,  saying:  "Mother  Earth  have  pity  on  me 
and  give  me  to  eat,"  but  the  ears  of  the  Earth 


118  LEGENDS 

were  stopped  with  cinders.  Then,  after  five  sleeps, 
suddenly  before  him  grew  a  bush  of  service- 
berries  which  the  fire  had  not  taken.  Many  Swans 
gathered  the  berries  and  appeased  his  hunger.  He 
said:  "The  berries  that  grow  are  blessed,  for  now 
I  shall  live."  Yet  he  knew  that  he  did  not  want  to 
live,  only  his  hunger  raged  fiercely  within  him 
and  he  could  not  stand  against  it.  He  took  cinders 
and  powdered  them,  and  mixed  them  with  river 
water,  and  made  his  body  black,  and  so  he  set  his 
back  to  the  river  and  his  face  to  the  mountains 
and  journeyed  on. 

Up  and  over  the  Backbone-of-the- World  went  Many 
Swans.  Above  the  peaks  of  solitude  hang  the 
winds  of  all  directions,  and  because  there  are  a 
multitude  of  winds  they  can  hold  fire  and  turn  it. 
Therefore  Many  Swans  felt  leaves  once  more 
about  his  face,  and  the  place  was  kind  to  his  eyes 


MANY  SWANS  119 

with  laurels,  and  quaking  aspens,  and  honey- 
suckle-trees. All  the  bushes  and  flowers  were 
talking,  but  it  was  not  about  Many  Swans.  The 
oaks  boasted  of  their  iron  sinews:  "Fire  is  a  play- 
thing, a  ball  to  be  tossed  and  flung  away,"  and 
they  rustled  their  leaves  and  struck  their  roots 
farther  into  the  moist  soil.  The  red  firs  stirred  at 
the  challenge:  "In  Winter  your  leaves  are  dry," 
they  called  to  the  oaks,  "then  the  fire-bear  can 
eat  you.  But  our  leaves  are  never  dry.  They  are 
whips  to  sting  the  lips  of  all  fires."  But  the  cedars 
and  the  pines  said  nothing,  for  they  knew  that 
nobody  would  believe  them  if  they  spoke. 
Now  when  the  hemlocks  ran  away  from  him,  and  the 
cold  rocks  glittered  with  snow,  Many  Swans  knew 
that  he  stood  at  the  peak  of  the  world,  and  again 
the  longing  for  men  came  upon  him.  "I  will 
descend  into  a  new  country,"  he  said.  "I  will  be 
very  careful  not  to  swing  the  sacred  implement, 


120  LEGENDS 

truly  it  kills  people  so  that  they  have  no  time  to 
escape."  He  thought  he  could  do  it,  he  believed 
himself,  and  he  knew  no  rest  because  of  his  quest 
for  men. 

There  was  no  way  to  find,  but  Many  Swans  went  down 
through  the  firs,  and  the  yellow  pines,  and  the 
maples,  to  a  white  plain  which  ran  right,  and  left, 
and  forward,  with  only  a  steep  sky  stopping  it 
very  far  off;  and  the  sun  on  the  plain  was  like 
molten  lead  pressing  him  down  and  his  tongue 
rattled  with  thirst.  So  he  lifted  himself  against 
the  weight  of  the  sun  and  wished  a  great  wish  for 
men  and  went  on,  with  his  desire  sobbing  in  his 
heart. 

To  the  North  was  sand,  to  the  East  was  sand,  to  the 
West  was  sand,  to  the  South  was  sand,  and  stand- 
ing up  out  of  the  sand  the  great  flutes  of  the 
cactus-trees  beckoned  him,  and  flung  their  flowers 


MANY  SWANS  121 

out  to  tempt  him  —  their  wax-white  flowers, 
their  magenta  flowers,  their  golden-yellow  flowers 
perking  through  a  glass-glitter  of  spines;  all  along 
the  ridges  of  the  desert  they  called  to  him  and  he 
knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  He  asked  a  hum- 
ming-bird in  a  scarlet  trumpet-flower,  and  the 
humming-bird  answered:  "Across  the  sunset  to 
the  Red  Hills."  The  sun  rose  and  set  three  times, 
and  again  he  knew  not  where  to  go,  so  he  asked  a 
gilded  flicker  who  was  clicking  in  a  giant  cactus. 
And  the  flicker  told  him:  "Across  the  sunset  to 
the  Red  Hills."  But  when,  after  many  days,  he 
saw  no  hills,  he  thought  "The  birds  deceived  me," 
and  he  asked  a  desert  lily:  "Where  shall  I  find 
men?"  And  the  lily  opened  her  green-and-blue- 
veined  blossom,  and  discovered  the  pure  white- 
ness of  her  heart.  "Across  the  desert  to  the  Red 
Hills,"  she  told  him,  and  he  believed  her,  and,  on 
the  ninth  morning  after,  he  saw  the  hills,  and  they 


122  LEGENDS 

were  heliotrope  and  salmon,  and  as  the  sun  lifted, 
they  were  red,  and  when  the  sun  was  in  the  top  of 
the  sky,  they  were  blood  scarlet.  Then  Many 
Swans  lay  and  slept,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  reach 
the  hills  at  nightfall  lest  the  people  should  take 
him  for  an  enemy  and  kill  him. 


In  the  morning,  Many  Swans  got  up  and  made  haste 
forward  to  the  hills,  and  soon  he  was  among  corn- 
fields, and  the  rows  of  the  cornfields  were  newly 
plowed  and  from  them  there  came  a  sound  of 
singing.  Then  Many  Swans  felt  the  fear  come 
upon  him  because  of  the  thing  he  loathed  and  yet 
carried,  and  he  thought:  "If  it  should  kill  these 
people!"  The  music  of  the  song  was  so  beautiful 
that  he  shed  tears,  but  his  fears  overcame  his 
longing,  for  already  he  loved  these  people  who 
sang  in  cornfields  at  dawn.  Many  Swans  hid  in 


MANY  SWANS  123 

a  tuft  of  mesquite -bushes  and  listened,  and  the 
words  the  people  were  singing  were  these,  but  the 
tune  was  like  a  sun  wind  in  the  tree-of-green- 
sticks: 

The  white  corn  I  am  planting, 
The  white  seed  of  the  white  corn. 
The  roots  I  am  planting, 
The  leaves  I  am  planting, 
The  ear  of  many  seeds  I  am  planting, 
All  in  one  white  seed. 
Be  kind!  Be  kind! 

The  blue  corn  I  am  planting, 
The  blue  ear  of  the  good  blue  corn. 
I  am  planting  tall  rows  of  corn. 
The  bluebirds  will  fly  among  my  rows, 
The  blackbirds  will  fly  up  and  down  my 
rows, 


124  LEGENDS 

The  humming-birds  will  be  there  between 

my  rows, 
Between  the  rows  of  blue  corn  I  am  planting. 

Beans  I  am  planting. 

The  pod  of  the  bean  is  in  the  seed. 

I  tie  my  beans  with  white  lightning  to  bring 

the  thunder, 

The  long  thunder  which  herds  the  rain. 
I  plant  beans. 

Be  kind!  Be  kind! 

Squash-seeds  I  am  planting 

So  that  the  ground  may  be  striped  with 

yellow, 

Horizontal  yellow  of  squash-flowers, 
Horizontal  white  of  squash-flowers, 
Great  squashes  of  all  colours. 
I  tie  the  squash  plants  with  the  rainbow 


MANY  SWANS  125 

Which  carries  the  sun  on  its  back. 
I  am  planting  squash-seeds. 
Be  kind!  Be  kind! 

Out  of  the  South,  rain  will  come  whirling; 
And  from  the  North  I  shall  see  it  standing 

and  approaching. 

I  shall  hear  it  dropping  on  my  seeds, 
Lapping  along  the  stems  of  my  plants, 
Splashing  from  the  high  leaves, 
Tumbling  from  the  little  leaves. 

I  hear  it  like  a  river,  running  —  running  — 
Among  my  rows  of  white  corn,  running  — 

running  — 
I  hear  it  like  a  leaping  spring  among  my  blue 

corn  rows, 

I  hear  it  foaming  past  the  bean  sprouts, 
I  hear  water  gurgling  among  my  squashes. 


126  LEGENDS 

Descend,  great  cloud-water, 

Spout  from  the  mouth  of  the  lightning, 

Fall  down  with  the  overturning  thunder. 

For  the  rainbow  is  the  morning 

When  the  sun  shall  raise  us  corn, 

When  the  bees  shall  hum  to  the  corn-blossom, 

To  the  bean-blossom, 

To  the  straight,  low  blossoms  of  the  squashes. 

Hear  me  sing  to  the  rain, 

To  the  sun, 

To  the  corn  when  I  am  planting  it, 

To  the  corn  when  I  am  gathering  it, 

To  the  squashes  when  I  load  them  on  my  back. 

I  sing  and  the  god-people  hear, 

They  are  kind. 

When  the  song  was  finished,  Many  Swans  knew  that 
he  must  not  hurt  this  people.    He  swore,  and 


MANY  SWANS  127 

even  upon  the  sacred  and  terrible  thing  itself,  to 
make  them  his  safe  keeping.  Therefore  when  they 
returned  up  the  trail  to  the  Mesa,  he  wandered  in 
the  desert  below  among  yellow  rabbit-grass  and 
grey  iceplants,  and  visited  the  springs,  and  the 
shrines  full  of  prayer-sticks,  and  his  heart  dis- 
tracted him  with  love  so  that  he  could  not  stay 
still. 

That  night  he  heard  an  elf  owl  calling  from  a  pinyon- 
tree,  and  he  went  to  the  owl  and  sought  to  know 
the  name  of  this  people  who  sang  in  the  fields  at 
dawn.  The  owl  answered:  "Do  not  disturb  me,  I 
am  singing  a  love-song.  Who  are  you  that  you  do 
not  know  that  this  is  the  land  of  Tusayan."  And 
Many  Swans  considered  in  himself:  "Truly  I 
have  come  a  long  way." 

Four  moons  Many  Swans  abode  on  the  plain,  eating 
mesquite-pods  and  old  dried  nopals,  but  he  kept 


128  LEGENDS 

away  from  the  Mesa  lest  the  thing  he  had  with 
him  should  be  beyond  his  strength  to  hold. 


Twixt  this  side,  twixt  that  side, 
Twixt  rock-stones  and  sage-brush, 
Twixt  bushes  and  sand, 
Go  the  snakes  a  smooth  way, 
Belly-creeping, 

Sliding  faster  than  the  flash  of  water  on  a 
bluebird's  wing. 

Twixt  corn  and  twixt  cactus, 
Twixt  springside  and  barren, 
Along  a  cold  trail 
Slip  the  snake-people. 
Black-tip-tongued  Garter  Snakes, 
Olive-blue  Racer  Snakes, 
Whip  Snakes  and  Rat  Snakes, 


MANY  SWANS  129 

Great  orange  Bull  Snakes, 

And  the  King  of  the  Snakes, 

With  his  high  rings  of  scarlet, 

His  high  rings  of  yellow, 

His  double  high  black  rings, 

Detesting  his  fellows, 

The  Killer  of  Rattlers. 

Rattle  —  rattle  —  rattle  — 

Rattle  —  rattle  —  rattle  — 

The  Rattlers, 

The  Rattlesnakes. 

Hiss-s-s-s ! 

Ah-h-h-! 

White  Rattlesnakes, 

Green  Rattlesnakes, 

Black-and-yellow  Rattlesnakes, 

Barred  like  tigers 

Soft  as  panthers. 

Diamond  Rattlesnakes 


130  LEGENDS 

All  spotted, 

Six  feet  long 

With  tails  of  snow-shine. 

And  most  awful, 

Heaving  wrongwise, 

The  fiend-whisking 

Swift  Sidewinders. 

Rattlesnakes  upon  the  desert 

Coiling  in  a  clump  of  greasewood, 

Winding  up  the  Mesa  footpath. 

Who  dares  meet  them? 

Who  dares  stroke  them? 

Who  dares  seize  them? 

Rattle  —  rattle  —  rattle  — 

Rattle  —  rattle  —  hiss-s-s! 

They  dare,  the  men  of  Tusayan.  With  their  eagle- 
whips,  they  stroke  them.  With  their  sharp  bronze 
hands,  they  seize  them.  Run  —  run  —  up  the 


MANY  SWANS  131 

Mesa  path,  dive  into  the  kiva.  The  jars  are  ready, 
drop  in  the  rattlers  —  Tigers,  Diamonds,  Side- 
winders, drop  in  Bull  Snakes,  Whip  Snakes,  Gar- 
ters, but  hang  the  King  Snake  in  a  basket  on  the 
wall,  he  must  not  see  all  these  Rattlesnakes,  he 
would  die  of  an  apoplexy. 

They  have  hunted  them  toward  the  four  directions. 
Toward  the  yellow  North,  the  blue  West,  the 
red  South,  the  white  East.  Now  they  sit  by  the 
sand  altar  and  smoke,  chanting  of  the  clouds  and 
the  four-coloured  lightning-snakes  who  bring  rain. 
They  have  made  green  prayer-sticks  with  black 
points  and  left  them  at  the  shrines  to  tell  the 
snake-people  that  their  festival  is  here.  Bang! 
Bang!  Drums!  And  whirl  the  thunder-whizzers! 
"Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Hear  us! 

Carry  our  words  to  your  Mother. 

We  wash  you  clean,  Snake  Brothers. 

We  sing  to  you. 


132  LEGENDS 

We  shall  dance  for  you. 

Plead  with  your  Mother 

That  she  send  the  white  and  green  rain, 

That  she  look  at  us  with  the  black  eyes  of 
the  lightning, 

So  our  corn-ears  may  be  double  and  long, 

So  our  melons  may  swell  as  thunder-clouds 

In  a  ripe  wind. 

Bring  wind! 

Bring  lightning! 

Bring  thunder! 

Strip  our  trees  with  blue-rain  arrows. 

Ho-Ho-hai!  Wa-ha-ne." 
Bang!  Bang! 

Over  the  floor  of  the  kiva  squirm  the  snakes,  fresh 
from  washing.  Twixt  this  side,  twixt  that  side, 
twixt  toes  and  twixt  ankles,  go  the  snakes  a 
smooth  way,  and  the  priests  coax  them  with  their 
eagle-feather  whips  and  turn  them  always  back- 


MANY  SWANS  133 

ward.  Rattle  —  rattle  —  rattle  —  snake-tails 
threshing  a  hot  air.  Whizz!  Clatter!  Clap!  Clap! 
Corn-gourds  shaking  in  hard  hands.  A  band  of 
light  down  the  ladder,  cutting  upon  a  mad 
darkness. 

Cottonwood  kisi  flickering  in  a  breeze,  little  sprigs 
of  cotton-leaves  clapping  hands  at  Hopi  people, 
crowds  of  Hopi  people  waiting  in  the  Plaza  to  see 
a  monstrous  thing.  Houses  make  a  shadow,  desert 
is  in  sunshine,  priests  step  out  of  kiva. 

Antelope  priests  in  front  of  the  kisi,  making  slow  leg- 
motions  to  a  slow  time.  Turtle-shell  knee-rattles 
spill  a  double  rhythm,  arms  shake  gourd-rattles, 
goat-toes;  necklaces  —  turquoise  and  sea-shell  — 
swing  a  round  of  clashing.  Striped  lightning  Ante- 
lopes waiting  for  the  Snake  Priests.  Red-kilted 
Snake  Priests  facing  them,  going  forward  and 
back,  coming  back  and  over,  waving  the  snake- 


134  LEGENDS 

whips,  chanting  a  hundred  ask-songs.  Go  on, 
go  back  —  white  —  black  —  red  blood-feather, 
white  breath-feather,  little  cotton-leaf  hands 
clap  —  clap  —  He  is  at  the  flap  of  the  kisi,  they 
have  given  him  a  spotted  rattlesnake.  Put  him  in 
the  mouth,  kiss  the  Snake  Brother,  fondle  him 
with  the  tongue. 

Tripping  on  a  quick  tune,  they  trot  round  the  square. 
Rattle  —  rattle  —  goat- toes,  turtle-shells,  snake- 
tails.  Hiss,  oily  snake-mouths;  drip,  wide  priest- 
mouths  over  the  snake-skins,  wet  slimy  snake- 
skins.  "Aye-ya-ha!  Ay-ye-he!  Ha-ha-wa-ha! 
Oway-ha!"  The  red  snake-whips  tremble  and 
purr.  Blur,  Plaza,  with  running  priests,  with 
streaks  of  snake-bodies.  The  Rain-Mother's  chil- 
dren are  being  honoured.  They  must  travel  before 
the  setting  of  the  sun. 


MANY  SWANS  135 

When  the  town  was  on  a  roar  with  dancing,  Many 
Swans  heard  it  far  down  in  the  plain,  and  he  could 
not  contain  his  hunger  for  his  own  kind.  He  felt 
very  strong  because  the  cool  of  sundown  was 
spreading  over  the  desert.  He  said,  "I  need  fear 
nothing.  My  arms  are  grown  tough  in  this  place, 
my  hands  are  hard  as  a  sheep's  skull.  I  can  surely 
control  this  thing,"  and  he  set  off  up  the  path  to 
ease  his  sight  only,  for  he  had  sworn  not  to  dis- 
cover himself  to  the  people.  But  when  he  turned 
the  last  point  in  the  road,  the  thing  in  his  hands 
shook,  and  said:  "We  shall  strike  that  town." 

Many  Swans  was  strong,  he  turned  and  ran  down  the 
Mesa,  but,  as  he  was  running,  a  priest  passed  him 
carrying  a  handful  of  snakes  home.  As  the  priest 
went  by  him,  the  thing  in  Many  Swans'  hand 
leapt  up,  and  it  was  the  King  Snake.  It  was  all 
ringed  with  red  and  yellow  and  black  flames.  It 


136  LEGENDS 

hissed,  and  looped,  and  darted  its  head  at  the 
priest  and  killed  him.  Now  when  the  priest  was 
dead,  all  the  snakes  he  was  holding  burst  up  with 
a  great  noise  and  went  every  which  way,  twixt 
this  side,  twixt  that  side,  twixt  upwards,  twixt 
downwards,  twixt  rock-stone  and  bunch-grass. 
And  they  were  little  slipping  flames  of  hot  fire. 
They  went  up  the  hill  in  fourteen  red  and  black 
strings,  and  they  were  the  strings  of  blood  and 
death.  The  snakes  went  up  a  swift,  smooth  way, 
and  Many  Swans  went  up  with  them  for  he  was 
mad.  He  beat  his  hands  together  to  make  a 
drum,  and  shouted  "Break!  Break!  Break! 
Break!"  And  he  thought  it  was  the  priests  above 
singing  a  new  song. 

Many  Swans  reached  the  town,  but  the  fire-snakes 
were  running  down  all  the  streets.  They  struck 
the  people  so  that  they  died,  and  the  bodies  took 
fire  and  were  consumed.  The  house  windows  were 


MANY  SWANS  137 

hung  with  snakes  who  were  caught  by  their  tails 
and  swung  down,  vomiting  golden  stars  into  the 
rain-gutters.  In  one  of  the  gutters  was  a  blue  sal- 
via  plant,  and  as  Many  Swans  passed,  it  nodded 
and  said  "Alas!  Alas!"  It  reminded  Many  Swans 
of  the  flax-flowers  in  the  sky,  and  his  senses  came 
back  to  him  and  he  tore  his  clothes  and  his  hair 
and  cried  "Ka!  Ka!  Ka!  Ka!"  a  great  many 
times.  Then  he  beat  himself  on  the  sharp  rocks 
and  tried  to  crush  the  thing  he  had,  but  he  could 
not;  he  tried  to  split  it,  but  it  did  not  split. 
Many  Swans  saw  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world.  He 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  thing  and  cursed  it,  then  he 
ran  to  hurl  himself  over  the  cliff.  Now  a  boulder 
curled  into  the  path  and,  as  he  turned  its  edge, 
The-One-Who-Walks-All-Over-the-Sky  stood  be- 
fore him.  Her  eyes  were  moons  for  sadness,  and 
her  voice  was  like  the  coiling  of  the  sea.  She  said 
to  him :  "I  tried  to  love  you;  I  tried  to  be  kind  to 


138  LEGENDS 

your  people;  why  do  you  cry?  You  wished  for  it." 
She  took  it  off  him  and  left  him. 
Many  Swans  looked  at  the  desert.  He  looked  at  the 
dead  town.  He  wept. 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  139 


FUNERAL  SONG 
FOR  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  BLACKBIRD 

BURIED  SITTING  UPRIGHT  ON  A  LIVE  HORSE  ON  A 
BLUFF  OVERLOOKING  THE  MISSOURI  RIVER 

HE  is  dead, 

Our  Chief. 

Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  Al! 

Our  Chief 

On  whom  has  fallen  a  sickness, 

He,  our  Leader, 

Who  has  grievously  died. 

At  his  feet  we  are  gathered, 

Warriors,  his  children, 

We  have  cut  our  flesh 

Before  his  body. 

Our  blood  drips  on  the  willow-leaves, 


140  LEGENDS 

The  willows  with  which  we  have  pierced  our  arms. 

We  beat  the  willow-sticks, 

We  mourn  our  Brother,  our  Father, 

We  chant  slow  songs 

To  the  listening  spirit  of  the  great  Chief 

Blackbird. 

Yesterday, 

When  the  sky  was  red 

And  the  sun  falling  through  it, 

They  called  to  you, 

Your  ancestors, 

From  the  middle  of  the  sky; 

From  a  cloud,  circling  above  you, 

They  pronounced  your  name. 

He  is  dead, 
Our  Leader. 
Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  141 

Our  Chief,  Blackbird. 

Beat  the  willow-sticks, 

Let  our  blood  drop  before  him. 

You  have  sung  your  death-song, 

To  your  friends  you  have  sung  it, 

To  the  grasses  of  the  prairie, 

To  the  river, 

Cutting  the  prairie 

As  the  moon  cuts  the  sky. 

See,  we  lift  you, 

The  blood  of  our  willow-wounds  drops  upon  you. 

We  dress  you  in  your  shirt  of  white  buckskin, 

We  fasten  your  leggings  of  mountain-goat  skin, 

We  lay  upon  your  shoulders 

Your  robe  of  the  skin  of  a  young  buffalo  bull. 

We  clasp  your  necklace  of  grizzly  bears'  claws 

About  your  neck. 


142  LEGENDS 

We  place  upon  your  head 

Your  war-bonnet  of  eagle  plumes. 

All  this  you  have  commanded. 

AT!  AT!  AT!  AI! 

Strike  the  willow-sticks. 

You  shall  depart 

From  among  us. 

It  is  time  for  you  to  depart, 

You  are  going  on  a  long  journey. 

Up  to  the  tall  cliff 

We  carry  you. 

Our  blood  drips  upon  the  ground. 

And  your  horse, 

Your  white  horse, 

Goes  with  you. 

He  follows  you. 

Softly  we  lead  him 

After  your  body, 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  143 

After  your  not  heavy  body 
Shrunken  in  death. 

The  hawk  is  flying 

Halfway  up  the  sky. 

So  will  you  be  halfway  above  the  earth. 

On  the  high  bluff 

You  are  standing. 

The  ground  trembles 

As  we  place  you  upon  it. 

You  are  dead, 

But  you  hear  our  songs. 

You  are  dead, 

But  we  lift  you  on  your  White  Weasel  Horse. 

He  trembles  as  the  earth  trembles. 

His  skin  quivers 

At  the  loose  touch  of  your  knees. 

Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 


144  LEGENDS 

Leader  of  the  Warriors 
To  the  spirit  land  you  are  going. 
Our  blood  cries  to  you, 
Dropping  upon  the  willow-leaves. 

Who  is  this  that  rides  the  Wolf  Trail  at  evening? 

Blackbird, 

Chief  of  his  people. 

His  bow  is  in  his  hand, 

Scarlet  the  heads  of  his  arrows, 

The  feathers  of  his  shield  sweep  the  ground. 

Lift  him, 

Lift  him, 

Lift  the  War  Chief 

To  his  light-legged  horse. 

We  will  stand, 

We  will  see  him, 

We  shall  behold  his  body 

Set  high  on  a  high  horse, 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  145 

On  his  own  horse, 

His  white  horse  of  many  battles. 

We  shall  see  him 

As  we  desire. 

You  are  bright  as  the  sun  among  trees, 

You  are  dazzling  as  the  long  sun  running  among  the 

prairie  grasses, 
You  pierce  our  eyes  as  a  thunder-cloud  rising  against 

the  wind. 

Who  shall  be  to  us  as  he, 
Our  Chief? 

Your  white  horse  shivers  and  is  still, 
He  will  carry  you  safely  over  the  Wolf  Trail 
To  those  who  are  talking  about  you, 
Calling  to  you  to  come. 

Lay  little  sods  of  earth 

About  the  feet  of  the  white  horse. 


146  LEGENDS 

Gather  those  which  contain  the  seeds 

Of  camass,  and  puccoon,  and  lupin. 

Watch  that  the  seeds  of  the  looks-like-a-plume  flower 

Spread  the  earth  we  are  laying  against  his  sides, 

So  that,  in  the  time  when  the  ducks  and  geese  shed 

their  feathers, 
The  black  breasts  may  drop  from  the  sky  upon  them, 

singing, 
As  our  blood  drops  on  these  sods. 

Al!  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 

Proudly  he  sits  his  white  horse, 

His  head-feathers  make  a  noise  in  the  wind. 

Great  Chief, 

Father  of  people, 

Facing  the  cleft  hill, 

Facing  the  long,  moving  river, 

Waiting  briefly  for  the  edge  of  night, 

Abiding  the  coming  of  the  stars, 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  147 

Poised  to  leap, 

To  strike  the  star-way  with  the  mighty  energy 

Of  your  powerful  horse, 

To  take  the  Wolf  Trail  with  the  shout  of  cunning, 

To  ride  streaming  over  the  great  sky. 

We  watch  you, 

We  exalt  you, 

We  cheer  you  with  our  hunting-cries, 

Our  battle-songs, 

To  the  beating  of  our  willow-sticks  you  shall  ride, 

And  he,  your  White  Weasel  Horse, 

Shall  bear  you  above  the  clouds 

To  the  tepees  beyond  the  star-which-never-moves. 

When  the  waters  are  calm 

And  the  fog  rises, 

Will  you  appear? 

Then  will  come  up  out  of  the  waters 

Your  brothers, 


148  LEGENDS 

The  Otters. 

From  beneath  the  high  hill 

Your  voice  will  echo  forth. 

Your  voice  shall  be  as  metal 

In  the  spaces  of  the  sky, 

Your  war  club  shall  resound  through  the  sky. 

Like  your  brothers, 

The  Eagles, 

Your  voice  shall  descend  to  us 

Down  the  slopes  of  the  wind. 

You  will  go  round  the  world, 

You  will  go  over  and  under  the  world, 

You  will  come  to  the  Place  of  Spirits. 

Ai!  Ai!  Ax!  Ai! 

We  are  pitying  ourselves 

That  he,  our  Father,  is  dead. 

He  is  carried  like  thunder 

Across  the  sky. 

The  trees  are  afraid  of  the  wind, 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  149 

So  are  we  afraid  of  the  whirlwind  of  our  enemies 

Without  our  Chief  to  lead  us. 

When  the  rain  comes 

On  the  wings  of  crows 

In  the  Spring, 

We  shall  fear  even  the  voice  of  the  owl, 

Sitting  alone  in  our  lodges 

Now  that  you  are  gone. 

How  many  the  count  of  your  battles! 

At  night, 

When  the  dogs  were  still, 

Going  softly 

You  would  seek  the  villages  of  your  enemies  to  destroy 

them. 

You  who,  all  night  long, 
Were  standing  up  until  daylight. 
You  fought  as  one  who  dances  singing : 
"Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh! 


150  LEGENDS 

Death  I  bring! 

I  dance  upon  those  I  kill, 

I  scalp  those  I  kill, 

I  laugh  above  those  I  kill. 

Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh1" 

Your  enemies  were  not  able  to  shoot, 

Their  bow-strings  were  wet 

And  the  sinews  stretched 

And  slipped  off  the  ends  of  the  bows. 

Your  arrows  were  red 

As  grasshoppers'  wings 

When  they  fly  high  in  the  sun. 

Your  enemies  were  ashamed  before  you 

Since  you  cut  off  their  heads 

And  tied  their  scalps  to  your  bridle-rein. 

Now  you  journey  alone, 

Journey  along  the  Wolf  Trail 

Wearily  among  the  little  stars. 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  151 

Ai!  Al!  Al!  Ai! 

It  is  time  for  you  to  depart, 

You  are  going  on  a  long  journey. 

You  are  going  in  your  shoes. 

You  cannot  travel, 

Your  feet  are  weary  with  many  steps, 

But  your  round-hoofed  horse  shall  step  for  you, 

He  shall  bear  you  over  the  trail  of  stars. 

The  deer  walks  alone, 

Singing  of  his  shining  horns, 

So  shall  you  walk 

Singing  of  the  great  deeds 

You  have  done  in  this  world. 

Leader  of  the  Warriors, 
Where  are  you? 
We,  your  children, 
Sing  a  song  of  five  sounds 


152  LEGENDS 

To  your  departing  spirit. 
We  sing  a  song  of  vermilion, 
We  stain  our  hands 
And  mark  the  palms  of  them  in  red 
On  the  flanks  of  your  horse. 
We  heap  the  sods  about  him, 
We  hold  his  head 

And  stuff  his  nostrils  and  ears  with  earth. 
We  cover  your  arms,  your  shoulders, 
Your  glittering  face, 
The  feathers  flying  above  your  head. 
The  water-birds  will  alight  upon  your  body, 
We  shall  see  your  grave  from  below, 
From  the  place  where  the  snipe  stand  above  their 
shadows  in  the  water. 

Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 

The  Morning  Star  and  the  Young  Morning  Star 

Are  together  in  the  sky  above  the  prairie. 


FUNERAL  SONG  FOR  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF  153 

How  far  have  you  already  gone  from  us? 

Our  blood  drips  slowly, 

The  wounds  are  closing, 

It  is  time  we  pulled  out  the  willow-sprays 

And  left  this  place 

Before  the  rising  of  the  sun. 


154  LEGENDS 


WITCH-WOMAN 

"WITCH! 

Witch! 

Cursed  black  heart, 

Cursed  gold  heart  striped  with  black; 

Thighs  and  breasts  I  have  loved; 

Lips  virgin  to  my  thought, 

Sweeter  to  me  than  red  figs; 

Lying  tongue  that  I  have  cherished. 

Is  my  heart  wicked? 

Are  my  eyes  turned  against  too  bright  a  sun? 

Do  I  dazzle,  and  fear  what  I  cannot  see? 

It  is  grievous  to  lose  the  heart  from  the  body, 

Death  which  tears  flesh  from  flesh  is  a  grievous  thing; 

But  death  is  cool  and  kind  compared  to  this, 

This  horror  which  bleeds  and  kindles, 


WITCH-WOMAN  155 

These  kisses  shot  with  poison, 

These  thoughts  cutting  me  like  red  knives. 

Lord, 

Thunderer, 

Swift  rider  on  the  clashing  clouds, 

Ruler  over  brass  heavens, 

Mighty  ruler  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Be  merciless  to  me  if  I  mistake  this  woman, 

As  I  will  be  merciless  if  I  learn  a  bitter  truth. 

I  burn  green  oil  to  you, 

Fresh  oil  from  fair  young  olives, 

I  pour  it  upon  the  ground; 

As  it  drips  I  invoke  your  clemency 

To  send  a  sign. 

Witches  are  moon-birds, 

Witches  are  the  women  of  the  false,  beautiful  moon. 

To-night  the  sign, 

Maker  of  men  and  gods. 

To-night  when  the  full-bellied  moon  swallows  the  stars. 


156  LEGENDS 

Grant  that  I  know. 

Then  will  I  offer  you  a  beastly  thing  and  a  broken; 
Or  else  the  seed  of  both 
To  be  your  messengers  and  slaves  forever, 
My  sons,  and  my  sons'  sons,  and  their  sons  after; 
And  my  daughters  and  theirs  throughout  the  ages 
For  your  handmaidens  and  bedfellows  as  you  com- 
mand. 

How  the  white  sword  flickers! 
How  my  body  twists  in  the  circle  of  my  anguish! 
Behold,  I  have  loved  this  woman, 
Even  now  I  cry  for  her, 
My  arms  weaken, 
My  legs  shake  and  crumble. 
Strengthen  my  thews, 
Cord  my  sinews  to  withstand  a  testing. 
Let  me  be  as  iron  before  this  thing, 
As  flashing  brass  to  see, 
As  lightning  to  fall; 


WITCH-WOMAN  157 

As  rain  melting  before  sunshine  if  I  have  wronged  the 

woman. 

The  red  flame  takes  the  oil, 
The  blood  of  my  trees  is  sucked  into  fire 
As  my  blood  is  sucked  into  the  fire  of  your  wrath  and 

mercy, 
O  just  and  vengeful  God." 

Body  touches  body.  How  sweet  the  spread  of  loosened 
bodies  in  the  coil  of  sleep,  but  a  gold-black  thread 
is  between  them.  An  owl  calls  deep  in  the  wood. 

Can  you  see  through  the  night,  woman,  that  you  stare 
so  upon  it?  Man,  what  spark  do  your  eyes  fol- 
low in  the  smouldering  darkness? 

She  stirs.  Again  the  owl  calling.  She  rises.  Foot  after 
foot  as  a  panther  treads,  through  the  door  —  a 
minute  more  and  the  fringes  of  her  goat-skin  are 
brushing  the  bushes.  She  pushes  past  brambles, 
the  briars  catch  little  claws  in  her  goat-skin.  And 


158  LEGENDS 

he  who  watches?  As  the  tent-lap  flaps  back,  he 
leaps.  The  bearer  of  the  white  sword  leaps,  and 
follows  her.  Blur  of  moonshine  before  —  behind. 
He  walks  by  the  light  of  a  green-oil  oath,  and  the 
full  moon  floats  above  them  both. 

Seeded  grass  is  a  pool  of  grey.  Ice-white,  cloud-white, 
frosted  with  the  spray  of  the  sharp-edged  moon. 
Croon  —  croon  —  the  wind  hi  the  feathered 
tops  of  the  grass.  They  pass  —  the  witch-white 
woman  with  the  gold-black  heart,  the  flower-white 
woman  —  and  his  eyes  startle,  and  answer  the 
bow  curve  of  her  going  up  the  hill. 

The  night  is  still,  with  the  wind,  and  the  moon,  and  an 
owl  calling. 

On  the  sea  side  of  a  hill  where  the  grass  lies  tilted  to  a 
sheer  drop  down,  with  the  sea  splash  under  as  the 
waves  are  thrown  upon  a  tooth  of  rock.  Shock 
and  shatter  of  a  golden  track,  and  the  black 


WITCH-WOMAN  159 

sucking  back.  The  draw  of  his  breath  is  hard  and 
cold,  the  draw  of  the  sea  is  a  rustle  of  gold. 
Behind  a  curl  of  granite  stone  the  man  lies  prone.  The 
woman  stands  like  an  obelisk,  and  her  blue-black 
hair  has  a  serpent  whisk  as  the  wind  lifts  it  up  and 
scatters  it  apart.  Witch-heart,  are  you  gold  01 
black?  The  woman  stands  like  a  marble  tower, 
and  her  loosened  hair  is  a  thunder-shower  twisted 
across  with  lightnings  of  burnt  gold. 

Naked  and  white,  the  matron  moon  urges  the  woman. 
The  undulating  sea  fingers  the  rocks  and  winds 
stealthily  over  them.  She  opens  the  goat-skin 
wide  —  it  falls. 

The  walls  of  the  world  are  crashing  down,  she  is  naked 
before  the  naked  moon,  the  Mother  Moon,  who 
sits  in  a  courtyard  of  emerald  with  six  black  slaves 
before  her  feet.  Six  —  and  a  white  seventh  who 
dances,  turning  in  the  moonlight,  flinging  her 


160  LEGENDS 

arms  about  the  soft  air,  despairingly  lifting  herself 
to  her  full  height,  straining  tiptoe  away  from  the 
slope  of  the  hill. 

Witch-breasts  turn  and  turn,  witch-thighs  burn,  and 
the  feet  strike  always  faster  upon  the  grass.  Her 
blue-black  hair  in  the  moon-haze  blazes  like  a  fire 
of  salt  and  myrrh.  Sweet  as  branches  of  cedar, 
her  arms;  fairer  than  heaped  grain,  her  legs;  as 
grape  clusters,  her  knees  and  ankles;  her  back  as 
white  grapes  with  smooth  skins. 

She  runs  through  him  with  the  whipping  of  young  fire. 
The  desire  of  her  is  thongs  and  weeping.  She  is 
the  green  oil  to  his  red  flame.  He  peers  from  the 
curl  of  granite  stone.  He  hears  the  moan  of  the 
crawling  sea,  and  sees  —  as  the  goat-skin  falls  so 
the  flesh  falls 

And  the  triple  Heaven-wall  falls  down,  and  the  Mother 
Moon  on  a  ruby  throne  is  near  as  a  bow-shot 


WITCH-WOMAN  161 

above  the  hill. 

Goat-skin  here,  flesh-skin  there,  a  skeleton  dancing  in 
the  moon-green  air,  with  a  white,  white  skull  and 
no  hair.  Lovely  as  ribs  on  a  smooth  sand  shore, 
bright  as  quartz-stones  speckling  a  moor,  long 
and  narrow  as  Winter  reeds,  the  bones  of  the 
skeleton.  The  wind  in  the  rusty  grass  hums  a 
funeral-chant  set  to  a  jig.  Dance,  silver  bones, 
dance  a  whirligig  in  a  crepitation  of  lust.  The 
waves  are  drums  beating  with  slacked  guts.  In- 
side the  skeleton  is  a  gold  heart  striped  with  black, 
it  glitters  through  the  clacking  bones,  throwing 
an  inverted  halo  round  the  stamping  feet. 

Scarlet  is  the  ladder  dropping  from  the  moon.  Liquid 
is  the  ladder  —  like  water  moving  yet  keeping  its 
shape. 

The  skeleton  mounts  like  a  great  grey  ape,  and  its 
bones  rattle;  the  rattle  of  the  bones  is  the  crack  of 


162  LEGENDS 

dead  trees  bitten  by  frost.  The  wind  is  desolate, 
and  the  sea  moans. 

But  the  ruby  chair  of  Mother  Moon  shudders,  and 
quickens  with  a  hard  fire.  The  skeleton  has 
reached  the  last  rung.  It  melts  and  is  absorbed  in 
the  burning  moon.  The  moon?  No  moon,  but  a 
crimson  rose  afloat  in  the  sky.  A  rose?  No  rose, 
but  a  black-tongued  lily.  A  lily?  No  lily,  but  a 
purple  orchid  with  dark,  writhing  bars. 

Trumpets  mingle  with  the  sea-drums,  scalding  trum- 
pets of  brass,  the  wind-hum  changes  to  a  wail  of 
many  voices,  the  owl  has  ceased  calling. 

"White  sword  are  you  thirsty? 
I  give  you  the  green  blood  of  my  heart. 
I  give  you  her  white  flesh  cast  from  her  black  soul. 
Thunderer, 
Vengeful  and  cruel  Father, 


WITCH-WOMAN  163 

God  of  Hate, 

The  skins  of  my  eyes  have  dropped, 

With  fire  you  have  consumed  the  oil  of  my  heart. 

Take  my  drunken  sword, 

Some  other  man  may  need  it. 

She  was  sweeter  than  red  figs. 

O  cursed  God!" 


164  LEGENDS 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE 

A  BALLAD 

"BENJAMIN  BAILEY,  Benjamin  Bailey,  why  do  you 

wake  at  the  stroke  of  three?" 
"I  heard  the  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  forest,  and  the  creak 

of  the  wind  in  the  alder-tree." 

"Benjamin   Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  why   do  you 

stare  so  into  the  dark?" 
"I  saw  white  circles  twining,  floating,  and  in  the  centre 

a  molten  spark." 

"Why  are  you  restless,  Benjamin  Bailey?    Why  do 

you  fling  your  arms  so  wide?" 
"To  keep  the  bat's  wings  from  coming  closer  and  push 

the  grey  rat  from  my  side." 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE  165 

"What  are  you  muttering,  Benjamin  Bailey?    The 

room  is  quiet,  the  moon  is  clear." 
"  The  trees  of  the  forest  are  curling,  swaying,  writhing 

over  the  heart  of  my  Dear." 

"Lie  down  and  cover  you,  Benjamin  Bailey,  you're 

raving,  for  never  a  wife  or  child 
Has  blessed  your  hearthstone;  it  is  the  fever,  which 

startles  your  brain  with  dreams  so  wild/' 

"No  wife  indeed,"  said  Benjamin  Bailey,  and  his  blue 
nails  picked  at  the  bed-quilt's  edge. 

"I  gathered  a  rose  in  another  man's  garden  and  hid  it 
from  sight  in  a  hawthorn  hedge. 

I  made  her  a  chamber  where  green  boughs  rustled,  and 

plaited  river-grass  for  the  floor, 
And  three  times  ten  moonlight  nights  I  loved  her,  with 

my  old  hound  stretching  before  the  door. 


166  LEGENDS 

Then  out  of  the  North  a  knight  came  riding,  with 

crested  helm  and  pointed  sword. 
*  Where  is  my  wife? '  said  the  knight  to  the  people.  'My 

wife !  My  wife ! '  was  his  only  word. 

He  tied  his  horse  to  the  alder  yonder,  and  stooped  his 

crest  to  enter  my  door. 
'My  wife,'  said  the  knight,  and  a  steel-grey  glitter 

flashed  from  his  armour  across  the  floor. 

Then  I  lied  to  that  white-faced  knight,  and  told  him 
the  lady  had  never  been  seen  by  me; 

And  when  he  had  loosed  his  horse  from  the  alder,  I 
bore  him  a  mile  of  company. 

I  turned  him  over  the  bridge  to  the  valley,  and  waved 
him  Godspeed  in  the  twilight  grey. 

And  I  laughed  all  night  as  I  toyed  with  his  lady, 
clipping  and  kissing  the  hours  away. 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE  167 

The  sun  was  kind  and  the  wind  was  gentle,  and  the 
green  boughs  over  our  chamber  sang, 

But  on  the  Eastern  breeze  came  a  tinkle  whenever  the 
bells  in  the  Abbey  rang. 

Dang!  went  the  bell,  and  the  lady  hearkened  —  once, 
twice,  thrice  —  and  her  tears  sprang  forth. 

*  'T  was  three  of  the  clock  when  I  was  wedded,'  quoth 
she, '  hi  the  castle  to  the  North. 

They  praised  us  for  a  comely  couple,  in  truth  my  Lord 

was  a  joy  to  see; 
I  gave  him  my  troth  for  a  golden  dowry,  and  he  gave 

me  this  ring  on  the  stroke  of  three. 

Three  years  I  lived  with  him  fair  and  stately,  and  then 

we  quarrelled,  as  lovers  will. 
He  swore  I  wed  for  his  golden  dowry,  and  I  that  he 

loved  another  still. 


168  LEGENDS 

I  knew  right  well  that  never  another  had  crossed  the 

heart  of  my  dearest  Lord, 
But  still  my  rage  waxed  hot  within  me  until,  one 

morning,  I  fled  abroad. 

All  down  the  flickering  isles  of  the  forest  I  rode  till  at 

twilight  I  sat  me  down, 
And  there  a-weeping  you  found  and  took  me,  as  one 

lifts  a  leaf  which  the  wind  has  blown. 

But  to-night  my  ring  burns  hot  on  my  finger,  and  my 
Lord's  face  shines  through  the  curtained  door. 

And  the  bells  beat  heavy  against  my  temples,  two  long 
strokes,  and  one  stroke  more. 

Loose  me  now,  for  your  touch  is  terror,  my  heart  is  a 

hollow,  my  arms  are  wind; 
I  must  go  out  once  more  and  wander,  seeking  the 

forest  for  what  I  shall  find.' 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE  169 

Then  I  fell  upon  her  and  stifled  her  speaking  till  the 
bells  died  away  in  the  rustling  breeze, 

And  so  I  held  her  dumb  until  morning  with  smothered 
lips,  but  I  knew  no  ease. 

And  every  night  that  the  bells  came  clearly  striking 

three  strokes,  like  a  heavy  stone 
I  would  seal  her  lips,  but  even  as  I  kissed  her,  behind 

her  clenched  teeth  I  could  hear  her  moan. 

The  nights  grew  longer,  I  had  the  lady,  her  pale  blue 

veins  and  her  skin  of  milk, 
But  I  might  have  been  clasping  a  white  wax  image 

straightly  stretched  on  a  quilt  of  silk. 

Then  curdled  anger  foamed  within  me,  and  I  tore  at 

her  finger  to  take  the  ring, 
The  red  gold  ring  which  burned  her  spirit  like  some 

bewitched,  unhallowed  thing. 


170  LEGENDS 

High  in  the  boughs  of  our  leafy  chamber,  the  lady's 

sorrowing  died  away. 
All  night  I  fought  for  the  red  gold  circle,  all  night,  till 

the  oak-trees  reddened  to  day. 

For  two  nights  more  I  strove  to  take  it,  the  red  gold 

circlet,  the  ring  of  fear, 
But  on  the  third  in  a  blood-red  vision  I  drew  my  sword 

and  cut  it  clear. 

Severed  the  ring  and  severed  the  finger,  and  slew  my 

Dear  on  the  stroke  of  three; 
Then  I  dug  a  grave  beneath  the  oak-trees,  and  buried 

her  there  where  none  could  see. 

I  took  the  ring  and  the  bleeding  finger,  and  sent  a  mes- 
senger swiftly  forth, 

An  amazing  gift  to  my  Lord  I  sent  them,  in  his  lonely 
castle  to  the  North. 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE  171 

He  died,  they  say,  at  sight  of  my  present.  I  laughed 
when  I  heard  it  —  'Hee!  Hee!  Hee!' 

But  every  night  my  veins  run  water  and  my  pores 
sweat  blood  at  the  stroke  of  three." 

"Benjamin  Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  seek  repentance, 

your  time  is  past.'* 
"My  Dearest  Dear  lies  under  the  oak-trees,  pity 

indeed  that  the  ring  held  fast." 

"Benjamin  Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  sinners  repent 
when  they  come  to  die." 

"Toll  the  bell  in  the  Abbey  tower,  and  under  the  oak- 
trees  let  me  lie." 


172  LEGENDS 


GAVOTTE  IN  D  MINOR 

SHE  wore  purple,  and  when  other  people  slept 

She  stept  lightly  —  lightly  —  in  her  ruby  powdered 

slippers 

Along  the  flags  of  the  East  portico. 
And  the  moon  slowly  rifting  the  heights  of  cloud 
Touched  her  face  so  that  she  bowed 
Her  head,  and  held  her  hand  to  her  eyes 
To  keep  the  white  shining  from  her.    And  she  was 

wise, 
For  gazing  at  the  moon  was  like  looking  on  her  own 

dead  face 

Passing  alone  in  a  wide  place, 
Chill  and  uncosseted,  always  above 
The  hot  protuberance  of  life.  Love  to  her 
Was  morning  and  a  great  stir 
Of  trumpets  and  tire-women  and  sharp  sun. 


GAVOTTE  IN  D  MINOR  173 

As  she  had  begun,  so  she  would  end, 

Walking  alone  to  the  last  bend 

Where  the  portico  turned  the  wall. 

And  her  slipper's  sound 

Was  scarce  as  loud  upon  the  ground 

As  her  tear's  fall. 

Her  long  white  fingers  crisped  and  clung 

Each  to  each,  and  her  weary  tongue 

Rattled  always  the  same  cold  speech: 

Gold  was  not  made  to  lie  in  grass, 

Silver  dints  at  the  touch  of  brass, 

The  days  pass. 

Lightly,  softly,  wearily, 
The  lady  paces,  drearily 
Listening  to  the  half-shrill  croon 
Leaves  make  on  a  moony  Autumn  night 
When  the  windy  light 
Runs  over  the  ivy  eerily. 


174  LEGENDS 

A  branch  at  the  corner  cocks  an  obscene  eye 

As  she  passes  —  passes  —  by,  and  by  — 

A  hand  stretches  out  from  a  column's  edge, 

Faces  float  in  a  phosphorent  wedge 

Through  the  points  of  arches,  and  there  is  speech 

In  the  carven  roof -groins  out  of  reach. 

A  love-word,  a  lust-word,  shivers  and  mocks 

The  placid  stroke  of  the  village  clocks. 

Does  the  lady  hear? 

Is  any  one  near? 

She  jeers  at  life,  must  she  wed  instead 

The  cold  dead? 

A  marriage-bed  of  moist  green  mold, 

With  an  over-head  tester  of  beaten  gold. 

A  splendid  price  for  a  splendid  scorn, 

A  tombstone  pedigree  snarled  with  thorn 

Clouding  the  letters  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

She  will  have  them  hi  granite  for  her  heart's  chill  ease. 


GAVOTTE  IN  D  MINOR  175 

I  set  the  candle  in  a  draught  of  air 

And  watched  it  swale  to  the  last  thin  flair. 

They  laid  her  in  a  fair  chamber  hung  with  arras, 

And  they  wept  her  virgin  soul. 

The  arras  was  woven  of  the  story  of  Minos  and 

Dictynna. 
But  I  grieved  that  I  could  no  longer  hear  the  shuffle  of 

her  feet  along  the  portico, 
And  the  ruffling  of  her  train  against  the  stones. 


176  LEGENDS 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN 

I 

IT  was  not  a  large  garden,  as  gardens  go, 

But  carefully  patterned  with  row  after  row 

Of  flower-beds  edged  by  low,  clipped  box 

In  the  quaintly  prim  and  orthodox 

Manner  of  seven  teen -eighty  or  thereabouts. 

A  couple  of  dolphins  spurted  out  spouts 

Of  silver-blue  water  from  a  couple  of  fountains, 

And  the  distant  sky  was  suggestive  of  mountains. 

I  say  suggestive,  for  it  lay  with  the  wind 

If  the  sky  were  thicker  or  thinner  skinned. 

Even  when  the  air  was  without  a  vapour 

All  one  saw  was  a  luminous  blur 

Which  might  have  been  a  cloud  or  a  trick 

Of  the  eyes,  smarting  under  the  too  sharp  prick 

Of  the  very  clearness,  till  you  looked  again 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  177 

And  saw  it  still.  It  was  never  plain, 

But  hung  like  a  whisper  of  something  bright 

In  the  large,  slow  blue,  about  half  the  height 

From  horizon  to  zenith.  This  dolomite 

Which,  for  better  disguise,  I  shall  call  Ghost  Peak, 

Was  considered  by  Julius  to  be  the  unique 

Cause  of  his  coming,  and  presently  buying, 

The  charming  old  house  he  was  now  occupying. 

A  writer  may  live  where  his  fancies  dictate 

Provided  his  copy  be  kept  up  to  date, 

And  Julius  had  certainly  earned  some  repose 

And  might,  if  he  wanted,  play  dominoes, 

Or  whist,  or  billiards,  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 

Might  even  consider  the  taking  a  wife. 

Not  Julius,  he  sought  only  lapses  of  hours 

Within  reach  of  the  sight  and  scent  of  flowers. 

He  loved  the  languor  of  faded  chintz, 

The  strange  nostalgia  of  coloured  prints 

To  hang  above  Sheraton  chairs,  the  sham 


178  LEGENDS 

And  exquisite  classics  of  the  brothers  Adam. 

His  garden  delighted  him  through  and  through, 

With  its  peacocks  and  unicorns  clipped  in  yew, 

And  the  broad  lines  of  the  gravel  walks, 

Firm  and  flat  between  tall  stalks 

Of  fox-glove,  or  monk's-hood,  down  which  to  betake 

Himself  to  the  edge  of  the  long  green  lake 

Which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  garden-close  — 

And  over  all  the  Ghost  Peak  rose. 

On  the  days  when  it  did;  when  it  did  n't,  he  fought 

A  weird  depression  which  clenched  his  thought 

And  seemed  to  squeeze  it  between  cold  claws. 

He  harried  his  soul  in  a  search  for  laws 

Of  the  bonds  of  man  with  things,  the  caress 

Of  awe  and  horror  in  loveliness. 

He  burned  his  brain  in  a  search  to  find 

What  the  Ghostly  Mountain  meant  to  his  mind, 

What  his  chairs  and  tables  held  him  by, 

Whether  or  not  he  had  heard  a  sly 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  179 

Rustle,  as  he  passed,  from  the  peacock  yews. 

Once  he  thought  that  the  cockatoos 

On  the  chintz  of  his  arm-chair  flapped  their  wings. 

These  were  most  fearful  and  joyous  things. 

The  mellow  place  had  a  sort  of  spell, 

And  it  suited  him  thoroughly,  blissfully  well. 

He  was  tired  out  with  the  old  routine 

Of  man  and  man,  now  something  between 

Held  him  away  and  apart.  Intense 

Became  his  ultra-commonsense, 

And  he  was  happy  and  preened  himself 

On  being  an  unusual  sort  of  elf, 

Not  feeling  the  need  of  his  fellows  at  all. 

Julius  was  riding  for  a  fall. 

One  day  his  luck,  or  his  fate,  or  his  fiend, 
(Something  sardonic,  at  least)  intervened 
Between  him  and  the  comfortable  life  he  was  leading, 
And  suggested  a  walk  in  the  town.  Too  much  reading 


180  LEGENDS 

Had  made  his  head  buzz,  so  he  put  on  his  hat 

And  started  out  blithely,  considering  that 

This  bright  afternoon  was  an  excellent  season 

To  visit  a  shop  he  had  not,  for  some  reason, 

Yet  entered.  An  antiquity  dealer's,  of  course. 

Such  gentry,  he  mused,  were  the  clear  single  source 

Of  his  pleasures.  How  gaily  he  walked  down  the  street! 

I  might  almost  say  strutted,  so  very  replete 

Was  he  with  good  temper.  The  shop-door  stood  wide, 

And  Julius,  poor  devil,  stepped  squarely  inside. 

II 

The  place  was  dim,  with  shafts  of  dusty  light 
Shocking  the  gloom  to  colour.  On  the  right, 
A  grim  old  cabinet  whose  worm-holed  wood 
Was  black  as  iron,  reared  its  vastitude 
Quite  out  of  sight  among  the  smoky  rafters. 
Its  front  was  carven  with  the  grinning  laughters 
Of  broken-faced,  libidinous  dwarfs  who  clung 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  181 

Among  the  twistings  of  a  snaky  tongue 

That  proved  itself  a  vine  by  flinging  clusters 

Of  grapes  out  here  and  there,  which,  through  the  dust 

blurs, 

Shimmered  with  subtle,  polished,  purple  lustres. 
The  thing  was  most  intriguing,  harsh,  and  fine, 
But  like  a  thunder-cloud  which  breaks  the  line 
Of  open  clearness  in  a  Summer  sky. 
Worm-eaten  oak  could  scarcely  qualify 
Among  his  painted  satin-wood  escritoires, 
His  Wedgwood  vases  and  majolicas. 
"The  eighteenth  century  is  my  period," 
He  told  the  shopman,  who  answered  with  a  nod, 
And  forthwith  guided  him  among  the  maze 
Of  torn  brocaded  chairs,  the  chipping  glaze 
Of  things  which  once  were  lacquer,  and  the  traps 
Of  sprawling  andirons  with  trivets  on  their  laps, 
Into  a  little  yard  behind  the  shop 
All  full  of  urns,  and  columns,  and  a  crop 


182  LEGENDS 

Of  marble  Mercuries,  and  Venuses,  and  Floras, 

Of  cavaliers  in  bautas  and  black-silk-masked  signoras. 

The  shopman  waved  his  hand  and  turned  away. 

Well,  Julius,  take  your  stock  of  the  array, 

But  never  again  can  there  be  yesterday 

As  you  will  recollect,  I  dare  to  say, 

Though  sportsmen  keep  stiff  upper  lips  and  pay. 

The  things  were  well  enough  at  five  yards  distance 

But  at  a  closer  view  did  not  entrance. 

Julius,  discouraged,  was  turning  to  go  in 

When  some  conceit  of  colour,  vaguely  seen 

Between  two  statues,  struck  his  eager  sense 

And  set  him  threading  through  the  very  dense 

Concourse  of  mediocre  marbles.  Suddenly 

She,  charming  feminine  creature,  held  his  eye. 

The  seeing  was  a  dazzle  in  his  head, 

But  what  he  saw  by  every  honest  measure 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  183 

Had  not  this  shimmering  denied  him  leisure 
To  contemplate  beyond  his  eager  pleasure, 
Was  just  a  garden  figure  made  of  lead. 

A  garden  figure.  Yes,  but  what  a  one! 
Bright  as  a  flower  under  a  white  sun, 
Vigorous  and  frail,  with  tints  as  gay  as  those 
Which  deck  the  saints  in  Fra  Angelico's 
Best  adorations.  Dressed  in  pink  and  blue, 
A  rose-red  bodice,  whence  a  kerchief  flew 
Streaming  behind  her  on  a  hidden  wind, 
Her  azure  skirt  was  gathered  up  and  pinned 
A  little  to  one  side,  her  stockings  shone 
As  though  of  very  silk,  and  she  had  on 
The  blackest,  shiniest  pair  of  buckled  shoes 
That  ever  bore  a  maiden  through  the  dews 
Of  a  Summer  morning.  Then  there  was  her  hat 
Of  yellow  straw,  beribboned,  wide,  and  flat. 
Her  face  and  hands  were  all  that  hands  and  face 


184  LEGENDS 

Might  be  in  hue  and  shapeliness,  their  grace 

A  balance  of  perfections.  At  her  belt, 

In  her  up-curving  arm,  she  held  a  nosegay 

Of  marigolds  and  phlox,  the  lively  way 

In  which  these  flowers  were  modelled  made  a  play 

Of  movement  seem  among  them,  and  the  scent 

Just  on  the  point  of  coming  —  yes,  Julius  smelt 

Their  pungent  bitter  sweetness  as  he  bent 

A  little  farther  forward,  then  it  went 

Fading  away,  and  Julius  could  have  sworn 

The  lady  smiled  a  little  more.  Was  it  scorn 

Or  only  the  shadow  from  the  maple- tree? 

What  was  it  Julius  saw  or  did  n't  see? 

He  scarcely  stopped  to  wonder.  Back  he  hurried 

Into  the  shop,  and  though  a  trifle  flurried 

Achieved  a  tolerable  bargain,  for  our  hero 

Was  a  shrewd  business  man,  as  you  must  know. 

Well,  that  was  done,  the  figure  to  be  delivered. 

Did  Julius  hear  a  rusty  sound  which  quivered 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  185 

Down  the  old  cabinet,  cracking  in  the  heat? 
Those  grinning  dwarfs  pursued  him  to  the  street, 
He  felt  their  obscene  jaws  stretching  and  gobbling. 
That  cabinet  was  a  disgusting  thing, 
A  mouldering  carcass  which  needed  burying. 
And  then  he  straight  forgot  it,  thinking  where, 
Beside  which  tree  and  close  to  which  parterre, 
He  should  place  his  little  leaden  Jardiniere. 

Ill 

That  night  the  sun  sank  in  a  wheel  of  purple  flame. 
The  Ghost  Peak  floated,  an  unapproachable  purity,  in 

the  opposite  sky. 

The  lake  was  a  violent  splendour  with  no  farther  shore. 
But  Julius  had  chosen  the  place  for  his  statue; 
He  was  content  to  sit  on  a  garden  bench  and  smoke, 
And  watch  the  white  lilies  fuse  into  incandescence 

under  the  fading  of  the  sky. 


186  LEGENDS 

At  the  end  of  a  long  vista, 

Near,  and  not  too  near,  a  fountain, 

Beneath  an  acacia  whose  drooping  golden  chains  of 
flowers  brushed  her  hat  and  shoulder, 

Stood  the  little  garden  maiden, 

A  gaiety  of  colour  in  a  green  and  gold  shade. 

Her  pinks,  and  blues,  and  yellows,  were  like  the  tink- 
ling of  glass  bells  to  his  senses. 

A  front  foot  lightly,  firmly  advanced, 

A  back  foot  just  on  its  tiptoe, 

She  paused,  waiting  a  farther  reason  for  coming 
forward, 

Abiding  the]final  chord  of  a  rhythm  not  yet  completed. 

A  dancer  without  music, 

A  walker  without  a  goal, 

Seeking  a  purpose  to  fulfil  a  movement 

Unwittingly  begun. 

Half  bold,  half  shy,  and  wholly  alluring, 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  187 

Julius  congratulated  himself  on  having  added  to  his 

garden 

Just  the  touch  it  needed, 
And  more  than  ever,  felt  no  concern  to  leave  it. 

Summer! 

Summer! 

Great  gusts  of  surging  Summer, 

A  breeze  of  perfume  making  its  own  wind! 

Butterflies  flickered  among  orange  lilies, 

Ruby-throated  humming-birds  drank  from  climbing 

nasturtiums 

Hanging  in  a  vanishing  whirl  of  wings. 
At  night,  the  garden  was  a  bowl  of  fire-flies, 
And,  when  the  moon  rose,  the  Ghost  Peak,  suddenly, 

silently  visible, 

Bloomed  in  the  half -height  of  the  sky. 
A  fire-fly  lit  on  the  breast  of  the  statue, 
"As  it  might  have  been  a  diamond,"  thought  Julius, 


188  LEGENDS 

"I  had  bought  for  her  on  Midsummer  Day." 

He  was  pleased  with  the  fancy, 

And  slipped  his  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  statue 

To  see  it  gleam  in  the  moonlight. 

Pricks  of  sapphire,  ripples  of  rose, 

Basilisk  eyes  which  open  and  close, 

How  the  light  of  the  moon  ran  across  the  diamond ! 

How  it  splashed  deep  down  in  the  facets  of  the  stone 

And  flung  up  sprays  of  iris  and  maroon. 

Julius  played  the  tale  of  lover  to  his  dream 

Until  the  moon  set, 

But  when  he  tried  to  pull  the  ring  off, 

It  held  instead, 

Caught  in  the  crook  of  a  knuckle  of  lead, 

And  the  white  stone  was  red  —  red  — 

And  in  its  heart  lay  the  bright,  coiled  thread 

Of  a  many-coloured  snake  with  an  eye  in  its  head. 

And  there  were  grimaces 

Of  misshapen  faces 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  189 

Peering  out  of  a  green  snake-tree. 

The  diamond  glittered  horribly, 

For  the  eye  made  a  light 

Which  broke  through  the  night 

In  a  sort  of  bungling,  dazzling  flight 

That  splintered  the  garden's  symmetry : 

The  trees  were  so  tall 

They  had  no  tops  at  all, 

And  the  lake  stood  straight  like  a  painted  sea. 

Then  came  the  dark  .  .  . 

And  the  spark  of  the  scratch 

From  a  lighted  match 

As  Julius  sought  to  take  the  ring. 

But  he  could  not,  it  continued  to  cling. 

Julius  laughed. 

"Good  night,  Madonna  del  Giardino," 

Said  he, 

"You  may  give  the  jewel  back  to  me 

To-morrow." 

And  he  went  in  to  bed. 


190  LEGENDS 

But  not  to-morrow, 
Or  the  morrow,  or  the  next, 
Could  he  take  off  the  ring.  Julius  was  perplexed. 
It  was  safe  enough,  for  who  would  seek  gems 
On  a  garden  figure's  finger,  and  as  all  his  strata- 
gems 

Had  failed,  why  Julius  left  the  matter  where  it  was. 
In  fact,  he  grew  to  think  of  it  as 
An  added  touch  of  coquetry 
To  the  statue's  charm,  and  let  it  be. 

A  week  or  two  of  amazing  weather 

He  and  the  statue  passed  together. 

Julius  was  never  more  enamoured 

Of  his  quaint  old  house,  but  the  garden  clamoured 

With  loud  throat  notes  of  yellow  and  red, 

An  orchestra  in  every  bed, 

The  blaring  brass  of  late  Summer  flowers. 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  191 

In  the  early  morning,  the  garden's  blaze 

Was  softened  by  a  half-Autumnal  haze, 

But  by  noon  the  colours  were  deafening. 

I  am  not  responsible  for  the  sting 

Of  such  a  muddle  of  metaphors, 

They  were  Julius's,  and  what  was  worse 

He  made  many  such  as  he  sat  by  the  fountain, 

Under  the  gleam  of  his  Vision,  the  Mountain, 

Playing  a  game  he  delighted  in: 

That  his  garden  lady  was  feminine 

Flesh  and  blood  to  his  masculine 

Desire,  a  proper  person  before  whom  to  kneel. 

The  game  as  he  played  it  became  almost  real. 

It  was  well  no  gardener  was  hovering  round 

To  overhear  poor  Julius  expound 

His  love  in  his  best  poetic  style. 

I  fear  the  man  might  have  been  tempted  to  smile, 

Or  rather,  more  possibly,  since  persons  so  menial 

Find  everything  out  of  routine  uncongenial, 


192  LEGENDS 

He  might  even  have  taken  his  master  for  mad; 

A  condition  of  things  which,  I  hasten  to  add, 

Was  not  so.  The  truth  is  man  is  so  multiplex 

He  confuses  himself  with  his  this  and  his  that, 

And  carries  round  constantly  under  his  hat 

A  thousand  odd  notions.  Now  't  was  nothing  but  sex 

Deprived  its  due  reason,  which  set  Julius  sighing 

Before  a  lead  statue  instead  of  complying 

With  all  mystic  wisdom  and  seeking  a  woman 

Who,  whatever  she  lacked,  would  be  certainly  human. 

All  the  long  Summer  days,  and  soft  Summer  nights, 
Julius  sat  by  his  statue,  and  sometimes  the  flights 
Of  his  fancy  (or  eyesight)  made  him  think  he  detected 
A  twitch  or  a  shiver,  he  almost  suspected 
She  might  some  day  speak.  So  a  month  passed  away, 
Then  a  veer  in  the  wind  brought  a  cold  rainy  day. 
No  sitting  and  soaking  for  hours  together, 
And  Julius  was  in  for  a  real  "spell  of  weather." 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  193 

Like  wires  across  the  landscape  fell  the  rain, 
The  lean,  swift  wind  became  a  hurricane, 
Leaves  rocketed  along  the  air,  the  lashing  trees 
Thundered  as  they  drove  their  quivering  knees 
Deep  in  the  muddy  grass,  some  leapt  and  screamed 
As  a  branch  broke  and  left  the  trunk  all  seamed 
With  the  running  scar.  The  windows  creaked  like  bones 
As  the  old  house  raged  and  tore  on  its  foundation 

stones. 

Two  days  the  fury  lasted,  then  a  smooth 
And  sudden  calm  fell  with  a  change  of  wind, 
But  still  the  sky  seemed  a  grey  marble  veined 
With  spots  and  drops  of  black.  Like  a  broken  tooth, 
The  ancient  sycamore  stood  with  its  stumps 
All  hollow  to  the  rainfall.  Where  were  clumps 
Of  flowers  was  beaten  offal;  where  were  walks 
Were  spaces  littered  with  the  rotting  stalks 
Of  headless  plants.  Beyond  was  only  mist; 


194  LEGENDS 

A  hatching  of  water  hid  the  sudden  twist 

Of  the  path  to  the  Dolphin  Fountain.  How  was  she? 

But  Julius  had  no  mind  to  go  and  see. 

He  wanted  lights,  and  brick  facades,  and  town, 

Somewhere  where  no  leaves  were  which  could  be 

blown, 

A  brief  half-hour  away  these  might  be  had, 
And  Julius  sought  them  eagerly,  most  glad, 
For  once,  to  leave  his  consoles  and  clipped  yews. 
Blood  ran  again  along  his  dusty  thews. 

IV 

He  could  not  grasp  it, 

Could  not  tear  the  shell 

Off  of  his  soul  and  see  it  as  it  was 

Naked  and  green  with  life; 

Nor  could  he  see  what  tendrils  from  it  held 

Her  tendrils.  How  his  heart 

Long  since  burst  open  with  its  fruit  spilled  out, 


I 

THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  195 

And  so  accustomed  to  a  core  of  air, 
Closed  round  her  as  a  sheath 
Fitted  to  its  own  kernel. 
But  these  things  were. 
A  month  ago  he  was  an  amateur  of  taste, 
To-day  his  footsteps  rang  like  clanging  bells, 
The  steps  of  self-sufficing,  august  man, 
Beating  a  chime  upon  the  universe. 

A  month  he  had  been  away,  and  when  he  came 

Once  more  into  his  garden,  late  September 

Lay  like  a  melted  hoar-frost  on  the  air. 

The  flowers  were  dahlias,  marigolds,  and  phlox, 

All  spangled  with  the  chilling  of  the  haze. 

Julius  smiled  at  them  as  he  recollected, 

For  were  not  phlox  and  marigolds  the  flowers 

His  garden  lady  carried  for  her  nosegay. 

He  praised  himself  for  buying  the  little  figure, 

Hildegarde  would  like  it.  Then  he  turned 


196  LEGENDS 

The  corner  by  the  fountain  and  there  she  was, 

A  dazzling  clarity  of  shape  and  colour, 

For  now  and  then  the  fountain  tossed  its  spray 

A  little  higher,  and  lightly  spattered  her 

So  that  she  shone.  So  did  the  diamond 

Still  on  her  finger. 

But  Julius  was  ashamed  to  see  it  there 

And  made  a  note  to  have  it  cut  away 

Tf  nothing  else  would  free  it.  He  went  on 

Down  to  the  lake  and  skipped  a  stone  or  two 

Across  its  surface,  noted  how  faint  and  edgeless 

The  Mountain  was,  then  went  indoors  to  work. 

fle  worked  all  day,  and  in  the  evening 

Sat  down  to  write  a  line  to  Hildegarde. 

What  is  that  heavy,  pungent  smell? 
Flowers,  of  course,  but  not  in  the  room, 
There  are  none  in  the  room.  He  shut 
The  window  long  ago.  Again 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  197 

He  smells  it,  tart  and  sweet. 

"The  phlox  and  marigolds  are  lovely  here," 

He  writes,  and  stops  astonished 

For  phlox  and  marigolds  are  what  he  smells, 

And  all  the  windows  tightly  shut! 

He  dips  his  pen,  but  instantly  the  scent 

Becomes  submerging  like  a  drug, 

Becomes  an  ether  clogged  with  dreams. 

A  step?  Could  there  come  a  step 

Fanning  the  floor  as  lightly  as  a  leaf? 

Julius  startled  looks,  and  all  his  muscles 

Cease  to  cohere,  they  run  apart  like  sand. 

He  cannot  move, 

He  must  be  drugged,  for  right  before  his  eyes 

Are  phlox  and  marigolds,  and  they  are  arranged 

In  the  pattern  of  the  garden  lady's  nosegay. 

He  makes  himself  look  up,  but  it  is  torture 

Even  to  turn  his  eyes,  and  there  she  is, 

Holding  out  the  flowers.  "God  in  Heaven's  name! 


198  LEGENDS 

What  is  this?"  He  speaks,  but  cannot  move  an  inch. 

"I  love  you,  Julius,"  and  it  is  a  voice 

Brittle  and  sharp  as  glass,  a  crimson  glass. 

He  hears  and  shudders. 

"To  whom  are  you  writing,  Julius? 

Not  to  me,  and  you  belong  to  me, 

I  have  your  ring,  the  ring  of  our  betrothal." 

Then  Julius  tears  his  muscles  from  the  coil 

Of  their  inertia  and  leaps  upon  the  statue, 

Seizing  her  arm,  her  hand  — 

She  folds  upon  him,  smothering  his  face  with  hers, 

Her  crimson  voice  enters  his  heavy  ears.  His  mouth  is 

stopped  .  .  . 

Oh,  God,  how  loud  the  ticking  of  the  clock! 
How  hard  the  sleep  which  will  not  let  him  wake! 
His  eyelids  are  iron  doors  he  cannot  lift; 
With  all  his  strength  he  forces  them  to  open. 
The  clock  says  eight,  and  sunlight  fills  the  room. 
There  is  no  statue,  so  he  must  have  dreamed. 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  199 

But  the  letter  he  was  writing,  Hildegarde's  — 
There  is  no  letter! 

Well,  let  us  leave  it  there.  This  is  the  first  time, 

And  yesterday  is  a  thing  without  a  shape 

Broken  and  scattered. 

Can  he  build  to-morrow  and  find  his  feet  a  footing? 

Such  perchance  may  be,  or  otherwise  — 

A  year  has  many  days. 

V 

He  might  have  thought  the  thing  a  dream 

And  steadied  himself  by  that. 

But  when  p.  wall  dissolves  between  two  worlds 

An  honest  man  does  not  put  himself  off 

With  sophistries.  Julius  was  honest. 

He  played  no  tricks  of  thinking, 

And  never  got  the  chance.  She  saw  to  that. 

If  he  went  down  the  garden  to  the  lake, 


200  LEGENDS 

She  'd  leave  her  pedestal  and  follow  him 

Pleading  in  her  glassy,  tinkling  voice 

That  she  was  his. 

He  tried  to  work.  What  nonsense! 

He  could  not  see  his  paper,  for  her  arm 

Was  always  there  holding  out  her  flowers. 

She  ran  the  scale  of  coquetry,  now  coddling  him 

With  little  Dresden  china  figure  gestures, 

Now  raging  in  a  heavy  leaden  fury. 

Once  she  took  up  his  manuscript 

And  threw  it  down  and  stamped  upon  it, 

Then  fell  to  weeping,  bunched  up  on  the  floor, 

All  crumpled  to  a  sad  humility. 

She  was  very  lovely,  you  remember, 

So  possibly,  if  Hildegarde  — 

And  I'm  not  saying  that  there  were  no  moments 

When  he  half  wished  to  cross  the  line 

Between  the  worlds. 

It  was  not  much  to  cross  it, 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  201 

Just  leave  his  bedroom  door  unlocked  at  night, 

Or  spend  an  Autumn  evening  by  the  fountain. 

Once  done  the  other  world  was  his, 

But  not  the  two. 

No  man  can  straddle  both  and  be  alive. 

And  yet  he  touched  the  edge,  he  knew  it, 

For  the  sycamore  stumps  were  headless  snakes  some 

evenings 

Cut  jaggedly  across  the  middle  section, 
The  top  half  gone. 

They  jerked  half-circles,  breaking  in  the  middle 
Of  a  long  whip-tail  sweep.   The  movement  snapped 

directly  on  the  edge 

Which  kept  him  in  this  world.  If  he  should  cross 
Then  he  would  see  the  snakes'  heads  fully  winding. 
He  knew  this.  Luckily  that  moment  did  not  come, 
At  least,  not  then.  Then  he  would  face  about 
And  sternly  order  the  figure  to  be  gone. 
When  he  was  fierce  like  that,  she  went, 


202  LEGENDS 

Drooping  and  tearful  underneath  the  trees, 
And  that  night  he  was  free  of  her.  For  other  nights 
She  passed  beneath  his  window,  wringing  her  hands, 
Those  little  hands  which  kept  his  diamond, 
Or  else  outside  his  door  moaning  and  moaning, 
Pressing  her  mouth  to  the  key-hole, 
Squeezing  herself  full  length  against  the  door, 
Beating  her  hands  upon  it.  It  was  anguish 
To  listen  to  her  sobbing  in  the  night, 
And  half  betrayed  himself,  I  must  believe. 
It  was  unbearable,  he  grew  to  loathe  her, 
And  loathed  her  most  when  most  near  being  con- 
quered, 

For  fact  disports  itself  with  paradox. 
He  knew  her  suffering,  but  hers  was  single, 
His  double-darting.  And  then  one  afternoon, 
Worn  out  with  sleeplessness  and  struggle,  he  saw  a 

way 
To  give  her  what  she  wanted  and  save  himself. 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  203 

She  was  alone,  the  only  figure 

In  all  the  silent  garden.  She  should  have  a  mate, 

He  would  seek  her  one;  and  instantly, 

Next  morning,  he  escaped,  and  went  to  town, 

Going  directly  to  the  shop 

Where  he  had  purchased  her. 

The  bulging,  broken  faces 

Fleered  at  him  with  crooked  mouths, 

With  mouths  like  bloody  gashes 

Which  made  red  stains  on  the  oak  wood, 

The  black  oak  wood  of  the  cabinet. 

Or  was  it  the  sun? 

He  heard  them  slobbering  words, 

He  saw  the  words  like  smoke 

Rising  up  and  wreathing  the  rafters. 

He  saw  the  green  snake-tree 

Convulsed,  contorted,  and  swaying. 

He  saw  it  was  his  sycamore 


204  LEGENDS 

As  he  had  never  seen  it. 

The  leaves  were  clapping  and  sighing, 

The  leaves  and  the  faces  together, 

And  the  long  snake  boughs  with  heads 

Which  swept  in  terrible  circles. 

It  was  like  a  far-off  screaming 

Coming  through  time,  not  space, 

Tenuously  coming  through  tune. 

"Fool!  Fool!  Fool!"  in  a  sort  of  smoky  echo, 

Drawing  from  aeons  of  time, 

Ending  dark  and  still  in  the  rafters. 

And  he  saw  a  moon  in  the  rafters 
Shaped  like  the  Ghost  Peak  Mountain, 
A  moon  of  copper  and  crystal, 
In  the  midst  of  the  flowing  smoke. 

Julius  stood  stock  still,  forcing  his  mind 
To  balance  itself,  to  gain  a  solid  kind 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GAEDEN  205 

Of  upright  thinking.  With  his  will  drawn  tense 

He  held  it  sternly  to  obedience. 

The  swirl  of  smoke  subsided,  he  ceased  to  hear 

The  whispering,  the  faces  froze  to  mere 

Grotesque  immovable  carvings  on  the  doors 

Of  an  old  oak  cabinet,  one  among  scores, 

An  excellent  specimen.  When  Julius 

Reached  to  that  point  and  could  quite  see  it  thus, 

He  had,  he  felt,  attained  a  victory 

Over  himself,  or  over  the  incubi 

Which  always  seemed  about  to  haunt  him.  So, 

Relieved,  he  called  out  loudly,  "Oh,  Hullo! 

Is  any  one  here?"  At  this,  the  proprietor 

Appeared  and  inquired  what  Julius  had  come  for. 

Easily  explained,  to  find  another 

Lead  statue  to  match  and  set  off  the  other. 

Again  they  went  into  the  little  yard, 

Past  the  forlorn  Greek  goddesses  who  stared 

At  them  with  dull,  nicked  eyeballs  grimed  with  dust, 


206  LEGENDS 

Gaunt  in  their  marble  robes  beneath  a  crust 

Of  mosses  overscoring  them  like  rust; 

Past  the  poor  chipped  roccoco  cavaliers 

Mincing  their  minuets,  the  gondoliers 

Vigorously  rowing  on  the  cindered  grass. 

At  length,  beyond  a  crucifix  of  brass, 

The  proprietor  stopped  and  pointed.  There  it  was, 

The  very  thing,  exactly  the  right  size, 

A  little  manikin  in  a  gardener's  guise, 

With  yellow  breeches  and  a  purple  coat; 

His  loose  white  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat, 

And  he  was  idly  leaning  on  a  scythe. 

A  springy  fellow,  well  set  up  and  lithe, 

Some  rustic  gallant  decades  and  decades  dead 

Achieved  an  immortality  of  lead. 

The  thing  was  done,  the  garden  lady  mated, 

The  shopman  more  than  amply  compensated. 

And  Julius,  charmed  with  his  expedient, 

Passed  through  the  shop,  so  happily  intent 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  207 

Upon  his  ruse  he  did  not  look  at  all 

At  the  old  black  cabinet  against  the  wall. 

Is  it  better  to  see,  or  not  to  see?  A  question 

Weighty  as  Hamlet's.  This  time  no  suggestion 

Of  anything  untoward  struck  his  sense. 

He  preened  himself  upon  his  sapience. 

Most  appropriate  and  pleasing, 
The  little  purple-coated  gentleman 
Stood  between  a  clipped  peacock  and  a  clipped  uni- 
corn, 

An  engaging  bit  of  colour  beside  the  achromatic  yews. 
He  leant  on  his  scythe, 

Agreeably  regarding  the  little  lady  across  the  path. 
The  Dolphin  of  the  fountain  appeared  unconcerned, 
He  spat  out  his  jet  of  silver-blue  water  as  usual, 
But  then  this  was  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon, 
And  the  sun  was  very  bright  in  the  sky, 
The  sun  which  lit  this  world  and  not  the  other 


208  LEGENDS 

It  was  after  it  had  set  that  things  — 
But  Julius  had  installed  his  panacea, 
And  he  went  down  to  the  lake  to  skip  stones. 
Even  when  twilight  came,  he  was  unmolested. 
"So  much  for  that,"  thought  Julius. 
But  he  went  back  to  the  house  a  roundabout  waj 
nevertheless. 

VI 

Tap!  Tap!  Tap!  The  sound  of  those  buckled  shoes ! 

The  little  stealthy  noise  hurt  his  ears  like  a  bruise. 

Three  days  she  had  not  come,  and  he  had  been  so  sure 

The  spell  was  broken,  even  had  found  himself  content 

To  relinquish  the  shadowy  dawn  of  something  im- 
permanent, 

The  vague  and  twilit  edges  which  seemed  to  circum- 
fuse 

The  real,  and  sometimes  almost  suck  it  or  melt  it 
away. 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  209 

Had  it  been  pleasure  or  pain?  Julius  could  not  say. 
He  had  taken  his  stand  on  the  solid  when  he  bought  the 

little  man. 
Tap!  Tap!  on  the  gravel,  the  footsteps  came  —  they 

came. 
And  each  was  like  a  crack  in  his  smooth  and  perfect 

plan. 

Why  did  she  come  now,  after  three  days  of  waiting? 
It  was  he  who  was  eager  to  ask  an  explanation. 
She  came  in  swiftly  and  knelt  with  her  marigolds  and 

phlox 

Held  quivering  out  before  her  in  a  sort  of  supplication. 
"For  you,  dear  Julius,"  she  said.  He  brushed  by  the 

evasion. 
"Why?"  he  demanded,  ironically  conscious  of  the 

parodox, 
The  question  sounded   as   if   he   had   breathlessly 

watched  the  clocks 


210  LEGENDS 

And  counted  the  moments  of  absence.  She  took  it  so 

at  once, 
And  with  a  certain  majesty  of  loving  stepped  swiftly 

forward. 
What  was  his  response? 

Julius,  Julius,  are  you  man  or  superman? 

Can  you  pass  the  nether  space 

And  keep  a  clue  for  returning? 

As  you  stand  in  the  flesh, 

This  woman,  this  leaden  woman, 

What  is  she  that  her  wooing  has  at  once  the  grace  of 

flowers 
And  the  horror  of  serpents? 

Beware,  Julius,  and  look 
Through  the  window,  someone  is  there, 
And  moonlight  striking  on  the  sharp  hook 
Of  a  scythe  in  the  blue  night  air. 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  211 

The  face  is  sinister  which  you  thought  so  debonair, 
And  the  eyes  are  blood-grapes  staring  at  the  little 
Jardiniere, 

And  at  you  also,  Julius. 

His  leaden  heart  is  green,  green  as  an  unripe  pear, 

For  jealousy  and  hate  is  a  choking    thong    in   his 
throat  — 

Her  beautiful,  beautiful  mouth,  her  sucking,  intolera- 
ble mouth! 

Julius  feels  his  head  throb,  his  stifled  arteries  bloat. 

He  is  the  tide  of  a  sea,  the  thunder  about  to  break, 

With  all  his  strength,  he  bursts  himself  awake 

And  flees  up  the  stair. 

The  long,  thin  vapours  of  the  nether  space 

Are  closing  down  as  he  mounts  the  stair. 

He  feels  a  tenuous,  flaccid  air 

Puffing  against  his  upturned  face. 

The  walls  of  the  rooms  are  spinning  and  whirling, 

The  tables,  with  legs  in  the  air,  are  curling 


212  LEGENDS 

Round  and  round  like  hoops  on  their  polished  edges. 

Unfastened  curtains  are  flaring  and  furling 

And  racketing  over  the  window-ledges. 

A  chiffonier  glides  across  the  floor 

And  catches  at  him  with  a  golden  claw. 

Fire  leaps  from  the  seats  of  the  chairs; 

The  flames  break  off  and  float  like  hairs. 

The  feathers  of  the  red  chintz  cockatoos 

Are  burning  convolvuli  of  reds  and  blues. 

Through  the  heat 

Comes  the  awful  beat 

Of  running  —  running  leaden  feet. 

Panting  and  moaning,  her  little  hands 

Clutching  and  pulling  at  the  air,  the  strands 

Of  her  shredded  petticoat  dabbed  with  blood, 

She  follows  Julius,  the  Gardener  behind 

Runs  with  a  frothy,  scarlet  cud 

Oozing  out  of  his  mouth.  His  hair  is  twined 

With  blotched  and  broken  maple-leaves; 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  213 

His  arms  below  his  rolled-up  sleeves 
Are  hairy  as  apes;  his  scythe  is  a  tongue 
Whimpering  for  flesh.  Julius  has  swung 
Out  of  the  window,  he  drops  to  the  ground. 
She,  with  the  curve  of  a  springing  hound, 
Is  after;  and  the  Gardener,  flung  on  a  bound 
Like  a  bladder  projected  into  light  air, 
Is  next,  and  running  with  the  others  there. 

Above  in  the  gurgling  trees-tops 

Are  whispering,  misty  mouths 

Slobbering  words  like  lava 

Spilling  them  down  the  stems. 

The  mouths  bleed  words  which  drip 

Into  crawling  slimy  pools 

And  seep  away  like  worms 

Through  the  slit  and  cringing  grass-blades. 

Man-high  is  pausing  stillness, 

But  the  tree-leaves  are  whistling  and  crying 


214  LEGENDS 

With  pallid  childish  voices. 
A  screaming  comes  out  of  the  distance, 
An  old  dead  agony  wailing, 
The  anguish  of  frozen  planets 
Engulfed  in  a  timeless  whirling. 
No  ear  can  catch  it  and  hold  it, 
It  hangs  beyond  hearing,  a  sense 
Of  sound  aching  into  the  flesh, 
Never  there;  never  quite  silent. 
The  sycamore  stumps  are  completed 
Into  white  and  hovering  snakes 
Which  glitter  and  gloom  like  silver 
And  wave  in  a  pattern  of  circles 
Perpetually  turning  and  coiling. 
The  peacocks  and  unicorns, 
With  the  faces  of  men  and  women, 
Dance  with  the  blue-black  dolphins 
Or  bathe  themselves  in  the  fountains. 
They  tear  off  their  feathers  and  skin, 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  215 

And  stand  up  as  golden  figures 

With  red  mouths,  and  red  ears;  their  bellies 

Are  round  and  polished  as  brass, 

In  the  centre  of  each  is  a  diamond. 

They  sing,  and  gambol,  and  roll, 

And  pelt  one  another  with  flowers, 

With  marigolds  and  phlox, 

And  dash  them  into  the  fountain. 

The  Ghost  Peak  lies  like  a  wound 

In  a  puckered  purple  sky, 

Sharp  cut  out  of  copper  and  crystal. 

It  throws  a  light  on  the  garden 

And  streaks  it  with  terrible  shadows. 

Through  the  shadows,  in  the  glare  of  the  copper 

light, 

Goes  Julius. 

His  breath  scalds  his  lungs, 
His  feet  stick  and  cling  upon  the  gravel, 
Behind  him  he  hears  the  feet  of  the  leaden  figures 


216  LEGENDS 

Nearer,  louder,  shattering  his  ears, 

Confusing  his  steps  with  the  rhythm  of  theirs. 

His  tongue  is  a  red-hot  ball  in  his  mouth, 

His  lungs  labour  as  though  under  sand. 

The  peacocks  and  unicorns  skip  round  him, 

They  form  a  ring  and  dance  before  him, 

Ogling  him,  thrusting  upon  him, 

Strewing  the  ground  with  the  diamonds  plucked  from 

their  bellies. 

Before  him  lies  the  lake, 

Shuddering  in  sharp  angles  of  copper  and  crystal. 
He  flogs  his  lungs,  his  feet, 
He  sees  only  the  lake  between  the  dancing  unicorns 

and  peacocks. 

He  hurls  himself  against  the  twined  arms 
And  breaks  through  them. 
He  leaps,  with  a  last  pulse  of  effort, 
Into  the  lake. 
Water  rises  and  blinds  him, 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  217 

Copper-flaming  water  like  a  great  wall  crushes  upon 

him. 
As  he  sinks  —  A  clap !  —  loud  and  reverberant  as 

thunder. 

Another  clap!  And  a  cleft  wave  rises  to  left  and  right, 
Hangs  a  moment  asunder, 

And  falls  together  with  a  noise  of  breaking  crystals. 
The  Ghost  Peak  explodes 
And  tumbles  in  bloody  atoms  down  the  sky  .  .  . 

vn 

Through  quiet  water,  riffled  by  the  moon, 

Julius  swims,  toward  the  silent  wharves 

Of  the  little  village.  He  hears  the  gentle  grind 

Of  rowboats  against  the  wharf -sides, 

Reaches  one  and  clambering   into  it  feels   for  the 

gunwale 

And  then  the  bow  and  painter.  He  pulls  the  painter, 
Hand  over  hand,  until  his  fingers  touch 


218  LEGENDS 

The  seamed  wood  of  the  wharf.  Then,  rising  up, 
He  steps  ashore  as  the  boat  rocks  away. 
A  striking  clock  reminds  him  of  the  hour. 
It  is  five  o'clock.  Already  above  the  roofs 
The  sky  is  tinted,  but  there  are  still  some  stars 
Like  diamonds  —  Oh,  damnable  allusion! 
Like  diamonds!  —  A  slightly  twisted  smile 
Twitches  his  face.  And  now  he  sees  but  one, 
Rayless  and  small,  immensely  bright  to  keep 
Itself  a  sparkle  in  the  coloured  sky. 
He  sees  it  as  the  spectre  of  a  death 
Which  might  have  been,  eyeing  the  resurrection 
Which  is.  Thank  God!  Now  he  can  watch  it  fade 
Beneath  the  creeping  daylight  —  just  a  star, 
Going  out  in  the  morning.  Stars  are  worlds; 
But  what  has  he  to  do  with  other  worlds 
Who  knows  so  blunderingly  of  this?  Well  then 
What's  to  do  in  this  world?  There's  Hildegarde— 
With  which  beginning  he  finds  it  is  the  end, 


THE  STATUE  IN  THE  GARDEN  219 

And  other  things  superfluous.  Why  return? 

Why  not  start  here  directly  where  he  stands? 

He  will  go  to  town,  and  after  Hildegarde 

(He  feels  no  qualm  at  seeing  Hildegarde, 

Some  things  are  certain,  Hildegarde  is  one), 

Call  at  his  agent's  and  give  him  strict  instructions 

To  sell  his  house  and  all  his  furniture 

At  once.  He  has  a  written  inventory. 

It  is  correct  except  for  two  lead  figures, 

Small  garden  figurines  of  no  great  value, 

Fallen  into  the  lake  by  accident 

And  much  too  heavy  to  think  of  salvaging. 

This  plausible  fiction  happily  invented, 

The  rising  sun  projected  his  sudden  shadow 

Before  him  on  an  earth  of  gold.  Which  noting, 

He  laughed  and  marched  along  the  alley  whistling 

The  broom  song  from  the  "Sorcerer's  Apprentice." 


220  LEGENDS 


DRIED  MARJORAM 

OVER  the  moor  the  wind  blew  chill, 
And  cold  it  blew  on  the  rounded  hill 
With  a  gibbet  starting  up  from  its  crest, 
The  great  arm  pointing  into  the  West 
Where  something  hung 
And  clanked  and  swung. 

Churchyard  carrion,  caged  four-square 
To  every  wind  that  furrows  the  air, 
A  poor  unburied,  unquiet  thing, 
The  weighted  end  of  a  constant  swing. 

It  clanged  and  jangled 

But  always  dangled. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  221 

Lonely  travellers  riding  by 
Would  check  their  horses  suddenly 
As  out  of  the  wind  arose  a  cry 
Hoarse  as  a  horn  in  the  weather-eye 

Of  sleet  at  sea 

Blown  desperately. 

It  would  rise  and  fall,  and  the  dissonance 
As  it  struck  the  shrill  of  the  wind  would  lance 
The  cold  of  ice-drops  down  the  spine 
And  turn  the  blood  to  a  clotted  brine. 

Then  only  the  hum 

Of  the  wind  would  come. 

Never  a  sound  but  rasping  heather 

For  minute  after  minute  together. 

Till  once  again  a  wail,  long-drawn, 

Would  slice  the  night  as  though  it  were  sawn, 

Cleaving  through 

The  mist  and  dew. 


222  LEGENDS 

Such  were  the  tales  the  riders  told, 
Sitting  snugly  out  of  the  cold 
In  a  wayside  inn,  with  just  a  nip 
Of  cherry-brandy  from  which  to  sip, 

While  rafters  rattled 

And  gossips  prattled. 

Rotted  and  blackened  in  its  cage, 
Anchored  in  permanent  harborage, 
Breeding  its  worms,  with  no  decent  clod 
To  weave  it  an  apron  of  grassy  sod. 

But  this  is  no  grief, 

The  man  was  a  thief. 

He  stole  a  sheep  from  a  farmer's  fold. 
He  was  hungry,  he  said,  and  very  cold. 
His  mother  was  ill  and  needed  food. 
The  judge  took  snuff,  his  attitude 

Was  gently  resigned. 

He  had  not  yet  dined. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  223 

"To  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead." 
That  was  the  verdict,  the  judge  had  said. 
A  sheep  had  died  so  why  not  a  man. 
The  sheep  had  an  owner,  but  no  one  can 

Claim  to  own 

A  man  full-grown. 

Nobody's  property,  no  one  to  care, 

But  some  one  is  sobbing  over  there. 

"Most  distressing,  I  declare," 

Says  the  judge,  "take  the  woman  out  on  the  stair, 

And  give  her  a  crown 

To  buy  a  new  gown." 

A  gown  for  a  son,  such  a  simple  exchange! 
But  the  clerk  of  the  court  finds  it  hard  to  arrange 
This  matter  of  sobbing,  the  fact  is  the  sheep 
Was  stolen  for  her,  and  the  woman  will  weep. 

It  is  most  unreasonable. 

Indeed,  well-nigh  treasonable. 


224  LEGENDS 

Slowly,  slowly,  his  hands  tied  with  rope, 

The  cart  winds  up  the  market  slope. 

Slowly,  slowly,  the  knot  is  adjusted. 

The  tackle-pulleys  whine,  they  are  rusted, 
But  free  at  a  kick  — 
Run  —  and  hold  with  a  click. 

A  mother's  son,  swung  like  a  ham, 
Bobbing  over  the  heads  of  the  jam. 
A  woman  has  fainted,  give  her  air, 
Drag  her  away  for  the  people  stare. 

The  hanging  is  done. 

No  more  fun. 

Nothing  more  but  a  jolting  ride. 

An  ox-cart  with  a  corpse  inside, 

Creaking  through  the  shiny  sheen 

Of  heather-stalks  melted  and  bathed  in  green 

From  a  high-set  moon. 

The  heather-bells  croon. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  225 

Heather  below,  and  moon  overhead, 
And  iron  bars  clasping  a  man  who  is  dead. 
Shadows  of  gorse-bushes  under  him  bite 
The  shimmering  moor  like  a  spotted  blight. 

The  low  wind  chirrs 

Over  the  furze. 

Slowly,  slowly,  panting  and  weak, 
Some  one  wanders  and  seems  to  seek, 
Bursting  her  eyes  in  the  green,  vague  glare, 
For  an  object  she  does  not  know  quite  where. 

Ah,  what  is  that? 

A  wild  moor  cat? 

It  scratches  and  cries  above  her  head, 
But  here  is  no  tree,  and  overspread 

With  clouds  and  moon  the  waste  recedes, 

\ 

And  the  heather  flows  like  bent  sea-weeds 
Pushed  by  an  ebb 
To  an  arching  web. 


226  LEGENDS 

Black  and  uncertain,  it  rises  before 
Her  dim  old  eyes,  and  the  glossy  floor 
At  its  feet  is  undulant  and  specked 
With  a  rhythmic  wavering,  and  flecked 

By  a  reddish  smudge 

Which  does  not  budge. 

Woman,  that  bundle  is  your  son, 

This  is  the  goal  your  steps  have  won. 

Over  the  length  of  the  jewelled  moor 

You  have  travelled  at  last  to  the  high-hung  door 

Of  his  airy  grave, 

Which  does  nothing  but  wave. 

Dripping  and  dropping,  his  caged  limbs  drain, 
And  the  spangled  ground  has  a  sticky  stain. 
She  gave  him  this  blood  from  her  own  dull  veins, 
And  hers  still  runs,  but  her  body's  pains 

Turn  back  on  her  now, 

And  each  is  a  blow. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  227 

Iron-shrouded,  flapping  the  air, 
Sepulchred  without  a  prayer, 
Denied  the  comfort  of  bell  and  book. 
Her  tortured  eyes  do  nothing  but  look. 

And  from  flower  to  flower 

The  moon  sinks  lower. 

Silver-grey,  lavender,  lilac-blue, 

East  of  the  moor  the  sun  breaks  through; 

Cracking  a  bank  of  orange  mist, 

It  shoulders  up  with  a  ruddy  twist, 

And  spears  the  spires 

Of  heath  with  its  fires. 

Then  a  lark  shoots  up  like  a  popgun  ball 
And  turns  to  a  spark  and  a  song,  and  all 
The  thrushes  and  sparrows  twitter  and  fly, 
And  the  dew  on  the  heather  and  gorse  is  dry. 

But  brutal  and  clear 

The  gibbet  is  here. 


228  LEGENDS 

Slowly,  slowly,  worn  and  flagging, 

With  the  grasshoppers  jumping  in  front  of  her  dragging 

Feet,  the  old  woman  returns  to  the  town. 

But  the  seed  of  a  thought  has  been  deeply  sown 

In  her  aching  mind, 

Where  she  holds  it  enshrined. 

Nights  of  moon  and  nights  of  dark, 
Over  the  moor-path  footsteps.  Hark! 
It  is  the  old  woman  whose  son  is  rotting 
Above,  on  the  gallows.  That  shadow  blotting 

The  Western  sky 

Will  be  hers  by-and-by. 

Morning,  and  evening,  and  sun,  and  snow, 
Months  of  weather  come  and  go. 
The  flesh  falls  away  from  the  withering  bones, 
The  bones  grow  loose  and  scatter  like  stones. 

For  the  gallows-tree 

Shakes  windily. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  229 

Every  night  along  the  path 
Which  her  steps  have  beaten  to  a  swath 
Where  heather  and  bracken  dare  not  spring, 
To  the  clack  and  grind  of  the  gallows  swing, 

The  woman  stumbles. 

The  skeleton  crumbles. 

Bit  by  bit,  on  the  ferns  and  furze, 

Drop  the  bones  which  now  are  hers. 

Bit  by  bit,  she  gathers  them  up 

And  carries  them  home  in  an  old  cracked  cup. 

But  the  head  remains 

Although  its  brains 

Nourish  the  harebells  and  mullein-stalks. 
Blow  the  wind  high,  the  head  still  balks; 
It  rolls  like  an  ivory  billiard-ball, 
But  the  bars  are  too  close  to  let  it  fall. 

Still,  God  is  just, 

And  iron  may  rust. 


30  LEGENDS 

November  comes,  this  one  after  ten, 
And  the  stiff  bush-branches  grate  on  the  fen, 
The  gibbet  jars  to  the  sharp  wind-strokes, 
And  the  frazzled  iron  snarls  and  croaks. 

It  blows  a  gale 

With  snow  and  hail. 

Two  days,  three  nights,  the  storm  goes  on, 

And  the  cage  is'  tossed  like  a  gonfalon 

Above  a  castle,  crumpled  and  slit, 

And  the  frail  joints  are  shattered  apart  and  split. 

The  fissure  gapes, 

And  the  skull  escapes. 

An  ostrich-egg  on  a  bed  of  fern, 
Restlessly  rolled  by  the  streams  which  churn 
The  leaves,  thrust  under  and  forced  into 
The  roots  and  the  mud  which  oozes  through 

The  empty  pockets 

Of  wide  eye-sockets. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  231 

Two  days,  three  nights,  and  the  ferns  are  torn 
And  scattered  in  heaps,  and  the  bushes  shorn, 
And  the  heather  docked  of  its  seeded  bells. 
But  the  glittering  skull  heaves  high  and  swells 

Above  the  dank  square 

Where  the  ferns  once  were. 

Hers  at  last,  all,  all  of  hers, 
And  past  her  tears  the  red  sun  blurs, 
Bursting  out  of  the  sleeve  of  the  storm. 
She  brushes  a  busy,  wriggling  worm 

Away  from  the  head 

Of  her  dearest  dead. 

The  uprooted  gibbet,  all  awry, 

Crooks  behind  her  against  the  sky. 

Startled  rabbits  flee  from  her  feet; 

The  stems  of  the  bracken  smell  ripe  and  sweet. 

She  pays  no  heed, 

But  quickens  her  speed. 


232  LEGENDS 

In  the  quiet  evening,  the  church-bell  tolls; 
Fishermen  wind  up  their  fishing-poles; 
Sheep-bells  clink  in  farmstead  closes; 
A  cat  in  a  kitchen  window  dozes; 

And  doors  are  white 

With  candlelight. 

In  the  old  woman's  house  there  is  much  to  do. 
Her  windows  are  shuttered,  no  gleam  comes  through, 
But  inside,  the  lamp-shine  strikes  on  a  tub; 
She  washes,  it  seems,  and  her  old  hands  rub 

And  polish  with  care 

The  thing  that  is  there. 

Gently,  gently,  sorting  and  sifting, 
With  a  little  psalm-tune  shakily  drifting 
Across  her  lips,  she  works  and  watches, 
Stealing  moments  in  sundry  snatches 

To  note  the  tick-tock 

Of  the  hanging  clock. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  233 

Decently,  reverently,  all  displayed 
Upon  a  cloth,  the  bones  are  laid. 
Oh,  the  loving,  lingering  touch 
Tenderly  pausing  on  such  and  such ! 

A  cuckoo  flings 

From  the  clock,  and  sings. 

"Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!"  Eight  times  over. 
Wrap  them  up  in  a  linen  cover. 
Take  the  spade  and  snuff  the  lamp. 
Put  on  a  cloak  for  the  night  is  damp. 

The  door  creaks  wide, 

She  steps  outside. 

All  tottering,  solemn,  eager,  slow, 
She  crawls  along.  The  moon  is  low 
And  creeps  beside  her  through  the  hedge, 
Rising  at  last  to  peer  over  the  edge 

Of  the  churchyard  wall 

And  brighten  her  shawl. 


234  LEGENDS 

The  flagstone  path  taps  back  to  her  tread. 
She  stops  to  listen,  and  whispers  spread 
All  round  her,  hissing  from  trees  and  graves. 
Before  her  is  movement;  something  waves. 

But  she  passes  on, 

The  movement  is  gone. 

Blind  in  the  moon  the  wmtfows  shine, 
Colourless,  glinting,  line  and  line, 
The  leaded  panes  are  facets  and  squares 
Of  dazzle,  arched  in  carven  pairs. 

Ivy  rustles. 

A  yew-tree  justies. 

The  corner  last  on  the  farthest  side 

Where  the  church,  foreshortened,  is  heavy-eyed, 

For  only  the  chancel  lancets  pierce 

The  lichened  mullions,  designed  in  tierce, 

Whence  the  sun  comes  through 

Ruby  and  blue. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  235 

This  corner  is  strangled  in  overgrowth: 
Dock-leaves  waver  like  elephants,  loath 
To  move,  but  willing  to  flap  their  ears, 
And  huge  stone  blocks  like  unshaped  biers 

Are  sprawled  among 

Clumps  of  adder's-tongue. 

A  bat  swoops  down  and  flitters  away; 
An  owl  whimpers  like  a  child  astray; 
The  slanting  grave-stones,  all  askew, 
Cock  themselves  obscenely,  two  and  two. 

She  stoops  and  pushes 

Between  the  bushes. 

She  lays  her  bundle  on  a  stone. 
Her  bleeding  hands  are  cut  to  the  bone 
And  torn  by  the  spines  of  thorn  and  brier. 
Her  shoulders  ache.  Her  spade  in  the  mire 

Sucks  and  slimes 

These  many  times. 


236  LEGENDS 

Slowly  she  clears  an  open  space, 
Screened  behind  hollies,  where  wild  vines  lace 
Their  tendrils  in  angles  and  fractured  turns. 
But  water  is  flooding  the  stems  of  the  ferns. 

Alas  for  the  dead 

Who  lie  in  this  bed! 

But  hanged  men  have  no  business  where 

The  ground  has  been  hallowed  by  chant  and  prayer. 

Even  to  lie  in  the  putrid  seeping 

Of  consecrate  mud  is  to  be  in  God's  keeping, 

And  He  will  forget 

His  judgment  debt. 

Poor  lone  soul,  all  palsied  and  dim, 
As  she  lifts  the  bones,  she  quavers  a  hymn. 
Then,  as  for  years  she  laid  him  to  sleep 
In  his  crib,  she  sets  the  bundle  deep 

In  the  watery  hole, 

And  prays  for  his  soul. 


DRIED  MARJORAM  237 

"Rest,  lad,  now,  surely  God  hears, 
He  has  granted  me  this  for  my  many  tears. 
Sleep,  my  Darling,  for  you  are  come 
Home  at  last  to  stay  at  home." 

But  the  old  voice  stops, 

And  something  drops. 

They  found  her  dead  on  a  sunny  noon, 
Clasping  the  ground,  and  overstrewn 
With  decent  leaves  which  had  dropped  a  shroud 
All  about  her.  The  parson  allowed 

Custom  to  waive 

In  making  her  grave. 

Even  the  sexton  said  no  word 
When  something  under  his  shovel  stirred, 
And  the  parson  read  the  burial  prayer. 
He  seemed  rather  husky,  but  then  the  air 

Was  bitter  cold. 

There  was  frost  on  the  mold. 


288  LEGENDS 


BEFORE  THE  STORM 

THE  LEGEND  OF  PETER  RUGG 

I 

OVER  the  hill  snakes  the  dusty  road,  creeping  up,  and 
up,  in  a  smother  of  sandy  gravel,  heaving  the  load 
of  itself  up  against  the  horizon;  a  couple  of  yards 
of  level,  then  a  leap  down  between  powdered 
barberry  bushes;  a  narrow  white  line  shot  like  a 
bolt  between  bushes  and  stone  walls.  It  is  appall- 
ingly still.  Not  a  rustle  of  the  white  barberry- 
leaves,  not  a  single  moving  stalk  of  Queen  Anne's 
lace  in  the  field  over  the  wall.  The  sunshine  lies 
like  a  flat,  hot  weight  on  the  hill,  a  moment  ago 
there  were  locusts  grating  in  the  branches,  but  not 
now.  The  ground  is  still,  and  hot  to  touch;  the 
trees  are  still,  with  a  hushing  of  innumerable 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  239 

leaves;  the  sky  is  still;  but  in  the  South-west, 
great  thunder-heads  push  up  behind  the  moun- 
tain. A  hushing  of  leaves,  and  a  pushing  of  big, 
white  clouds,  up  —  up  —  puffing  into  wide  silver 
balloons,  gathering  back  into  pigeon-grey  pleats, 
up  —  up  —  into  the  hot  yellow  sky. 

There  is  a  shade  over  the  sun,  it  is  fading  from  yellow 
to  white,  from  white  to  grey.  Away  down  the  hill 
is  a  tight,  narrow  wedge  of  wind,  it  cuts  sharply 
over  a  field  of  barley;  it  is  edged,  and  hard,  and 
single.  Another  wind-wedge,  with  looser,  vaguer 
edges.  A  mist  swirls  over  the  shoulder  of  Black 
Top,  thickens,  clouds  the  mountain. 

A  barberry-leaf  jerks,  and  settles;  two  barberry-leaves 
quirk  themselves  upright,  and  fall  back;  from  over 
the  hill  there  is  a  quick  skirling  of  crisp  leaves  — 
nearer.  The  trees  begin  to  whisper,  and  the  snaky 
road  hurls  its  dust  into  the  air  and  plunges  down 


240  LEGENDS 

hill  into  the  blue-black  wind.  All  the  leaves  are 
blowing  now,  shivering,  pulling,  throwing  them- 
selves frantically  hither  and  thither;  they  are  not 
green  any  more,  but  blue  and  purple,  and  they 
play  over  the  rolling  thunder  like  flutes  and  man- 
dolins over  double  basses. 

Something  races  along  the  road.  Sharp  whip-cracks 
staccato  upon  the  double  basses  and  flutes.  Who 
lashes  a  poor  brute  up  a  hill  like  that?  On  the 
two-yard  level,  something  passes  in  a  smear  of 
yellow  wheels  and  bright  steel  shoes.  Who  goes 
there?  "Boston!  Boston!  .  .  ."  But  the  stones  of 
the  down  grade  are  already  clattering  and  rolling 
as  the  horse  goes  over  them.  A  spatter  of  rain 
slaps  the  barberry-leaves;  patter  —  patter  — 
rain,  and  a  grieving,  tearing  wind.  A  flare  of 
lightning!  There  is  no  one  on  the  road.  A  long 
peal  of  thunder,  and  then  beating  rain. 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  241 

n 

"Lucindy-Ann,  you  run  upstairs  this  minit  and  shut 
them  guest-room  winders,  ther's  a  awful  storm 
a-comin'." 

Lucindy-Ann  tears  up  the  narrow  stair,  but  pauses  at 
the  guest-room  window  to  see  the  black  water  of 
the  bay  wrinkle  and  flow,  and  all  the  fishing-boats 
scud  to  their  moorings.  A  flicker  of  lightning 
quicksilvers  the  window-panes.  A  crash  of  thun- 
der sets  them  clapping  in  their  frames. 

"Somebody's  caught,"  giggles  Lucindy-Ann.  "Well, 
ef  that  ain't  a  queer  team!" 

Along  the  shore  road  comes  a  high  carriage  with  yellow 
wheels.  It  comes  so  fast  it  reels  from  side  to  side, 
swaying  in  a  dreadful  way.  Standing  up  in  it, 
lashing  the  white  horse,  is  a  man,  in  a  long  laced 
coat  and  cocked  hat.  "Did  you  ever  see  a  figure 


242  LEGENDS 

of  fun  to  beat  that?"  Lucindy-Ann  leans  from 
the  window,  and  the  lightning  spots  her  out 
against  the  black  room  behind  like  a  painted 
saint  on  a  dark  altar.  Lucindy-Ann  does  not 
falter.  There  is  a  child  beside  the  man,  clinging 
and  shaking.  The  horse  is  making  for  the  house. 

"You  come  right  in,"  shouts  Lucindy-Ann.  "Drive 
around  to  the  kitchen  door,"  but  before  she  can 
say  more,  the  man  has  pulled  his  sweating  horse 
up  under  the  window. 

'"' Which  is  the  way  to  Boston?"  he  calls.  And  his 
voice  quavers,  and  quivers,  and  falls.  A  clap  of 
thunder,  the  child  shrieks,  the  old  apple-tree  by 
the  window  creaks.  The  man  looks  up,  and  his 
clothes  are  torn  —  worn,  draggled,  caked  with 
mud.  His  face  is  white,  and  his  eyes  a-stare,  the 
lightning  strikes  him  out  to  a  glare :  he,  and  the 
child,  and  the  yellow-wheeled  chaise,  against  a 
background  of  blue-black  haze.  The  waves  slap 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  243 

on  the  sandy  shore,  the  apple-tree  taps  on  the 
entry  door.  "  Which  way  to  Boston?  "  the  cracked 
voice  wails.  "Boston  —  Boston..."  the  echo 
trails  away  through  tossing  trees.  In  the  bay,  the 
fishing-boats  heel  to  the  breeze. 

A  roll  of  thunder  jags  and  cracks  over  the  house  roof. 
Rain-drops  —  clashing  on  a  row  of  milk-pans  set 
out  to  air. 

"Boston,  Sir,  why  you  must  be  mad,  you're  twelve 
miles  from  Providence,  and  headed  fair  that 
way."  A  sharp  whip  cut,  a  snorting  horse,  a 
scrape  and  whir  of  the  yellow  wheels,  round  spins 
the  chaise,  and  dashes  for  the  gate. 

"An*  ef  he  ain't  took  the  wrong  turn  agin!"  gasps 
Lucindy-Ann,  as  she  draws  her  head  in.  The  milk- 
cans  rattle,  as  the  thunder  bursts  and  tears  out  of 
the  sky.  Away  down  the  road  comes  the  clicking 


244  LEGENDS 

clatter  of  fast  wheels,  lessening  the  distance  to 
Providence. 

"I  don't  s'pose  it  matters,"  says  Lucindy-Ann,  but 
she  scuttles  down  the  stairway  as  fast  as  she  can. 

Ill 

The  sky  is  lowering  and  black,  a  strange  blue-black- 
ness, which  makes  red  houses  pink,  and  green 
leaves  purple.  Over  the  blowing  purple  trees,  the 
sky  is  an  iron-blue,  split  with  forks  of  straw- 
yellow.  The  thunder  breaks  out  of  the  sky  with  a 
crash,  and  rumbles  away  in  a  long,  hoarse  drag  of 
sound.  The  river  is  the  blue  of  Concord  grapes, 
with  steel  points  and  oblongs,  down  the  bridge; 
up  stream,  it  is  pale  and  even,  a  solid  line  of 
unpolished  zinc. 

Tlop  — Tlop  — Tlop  — Tlop!  Beyond  the  willows, 
the  road  bends;  someone  is  coming  down  it  at  a 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  245 

tremendous  speed.  Indeed  he  is  in  a  hurry,  this 
someone.  You  can  hear  him  lashing  his  horse.  A 
flashing  up  of  willows  and  road  on  a  lightning  jab. 
A  high  yellow-wheeled  gig,  or  chair,  fashion  of  a 
century  ago.  A  man  in  a  cocked  hat,  a  child  in  a 
snood!  What  the  devil  gets  into  the  blood  when 
thunder  is  rumbling?  Have  a  care,  man,  that 
horse  is  stumbling.  Down  on  his  knees,  by 
Gravy!  No,  up  again.  Bear  him  on  the  rein.  Hi! 
Do  you  hear?  A  queer  swirling  and  sighing  in  the 
air.  The  crying  of  a  desolate  child.  A  quivering 
flare  of  lightning  sparkling  in  the  whirling  spokes 
of  turning  wheels.  Tlop!  Tlop!  on  the  wooden 
planks  of  the  bridge.  No  thanks  to  you  you're 
not  over  the  edge.  Lord,  what  a  curve!  He  went 
round  on  one  wheel.  Do  you  hear  anything?  No, 
feel  rather.  Drifting  over  the  grape-blue  river, 
seeping  through  the  willow-trees'  quiver,  is  a 
faint,  hoarse  calling  of  "Boston  —  Boston  — 


246  LEGENDS 

Will  no  one  show  me  the  way  to  Boston?'* 
Poor  Devil,  he  can't  have  left  it  above  an  hour. 
Listen  to  the  bridge  drumming  to  the  shower. 
And  the  water  all  peppered  with  little  white 
rounds,  it's  funny  how  a  storm  plays  the  mischief 
with  sounds.  Sights,  too,  sometimes.  Cocked  hat, 
indeed !  I  must  have  been  dreaming. 

IV 

Guinea-gold,  the  State  House  dome,  standing  out 
against  a  wall  of  indigo  cloud.  Boldly  thrust  out 
in  high  relief,  with  its  white  fagade,  and  its  wide, 
terraced  esplanade.  It  spurns  the  Common  at  its 
feet,  treading  on  it  as  on  a  mat,  cooling  itself  with 
the  air  from  its  fanning  trees.  Guinea-gold  light- 
ning glitters  through  the  indigo-blue  cloud,  a 
loud  muffled  booming  of  thunder,  then  the  rain, 
pin-pointing  down  on  the  stretched  silk  of  um- 
brellas, clipping  like  hard  white  beans  on  glass 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  247 

awnings,  double-streaming  over  the  two  edges  of 
sidewalk  clocks.  Electric  car  gongs  knock  sharp 
warnings  into  the  slipping  crowd.  A  policeman 
humps  himself  into  his  rubber  coat  and  springs  to 
catch  the  head  of  a  careering  horse. 
"Stop  beatin'  him,  ye  Fool.  Did  n't  ye  see  me  raised 
hand?  Whoa!  Stand  still,  ye  beast.  You  adver- 
tisin'  fellers  think  the  least  ye  do  is  to  own  the 
city.  I've  a  mind  to  run  ye  in.  Fool-bumpin' 
along  like  that.  What  you  pushin'  anyway, 
breakfast  food  or  automobiles?  He  was  a  clever 
guy  rigged  ye  out,  but  I  guess  ye 're  about  due  for 
a  new  set  of  glad  rags,  judgin'  by  them  ye  got  on. 
Here,  Kiddie,  don't  cry,  ye '11  soon  be  home  now, 
snug  and  dry.  Listen  to  that  thunder.  Some 
storm!  No  wonder  ye 're  scared;  it's  fierce. 
What's  that?  Mrs.  Peter  Rugg?  Middle  Street? 
See  here,  I  ain't  a  direct'ry,  ye'd  better  inquire  at 


248  LEGENDS 

the  post-office.  Tell  your  breakfast  food  to  put  its 
name  on  ye  next  time." 

There  is  a  hissing  of  sparks  as  the  steel  shoes  strike 
the  wet  asphalt.  A  clattering  of  iron  tires  on 
the  metal  roadway,  drowned  by  a  thunder  peal. 
Wires  and  wires  of  linked  rain,  hatching  over  the 
disappearing  yellow  wheels. 

The  policeman  rubs  a  wet,  red  ear.  "That's  a  queer 
thing,"  he  mutters,  "very  queer.  I  thought  he 
asked  me  the  way  to  Boston,  just  as  he  was  drivin* 
off." 

'V 

The  yellow-wheeled  chaise  with  the  cocked-hatted 
man  takes  all  of  New  England  into  its  span. 
Logging-men,  drifting  down  the  Kennebec  on 
floating  rafts,  see  a  moving  speck  of  sulphur  dust 
along  the  bank,  an  old-fashioned  gig,  drawn  by 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  249 

a  lank  white  horse,  driving  furiously  before  the 
storm.  A  moment  later,  a  thunder- bolt  gashes 
across  the  sky,  they  can  feel  the  raft  jolt.  Then 
the  river  swirls  into  lumpy  waves  and  the  logging 
men  jump  to  their  poles  and  staves. 

An  automobile,  struggling  up  Jacob's  Ladder  on  the 
way  to  Lenox  in  the  teeth  of  a  thunder-shower, 
sees  glowering  ahead  on  the  down  stretch,  a 
wretched  one-horse  rig,  which,  in  the  uncertain 
light,  seems  as  big  as  a  locomotive.  The  driver 
switches  on  his  klaxon  and  takes  the  down  slope. 
But  he  might  be  a  loping  broncho,  for  all  the  gain 
he  makes  on  the  one-horse  team.  His  klaxon 
screeches  and  echoes  among  the  hills.  Is  it  a 
dream  that  over  its  din,  a  thin  voice  reaches  his 
ear?  "Boston  —  Boston  .  .  ."  he  seems  to  hear. 
"I  left  Menotomy  a  long  time  ago.  Oh,  when 
shall  I  get  to  Boston!'* 


250  LEGENDS 

Gloucester  fishermen,  moored  to  a  wharf,  hear  a 
wheezy,  coughing  voice  calling,  pleading,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.  It  is  a  crazy  wight,  in  a  two- 
wheeled  buggy  of  a  pattern  long  gone  by,  driving 
a  great  white  horse  with  a  savage  eye.  The  horse 
stamps  on  the  thin  boards  of  the  wharf  and 
champs  his  bit.  There's  a  slip  of  a  girl,  too,  who 
does  nothing  but  cry.  Rigging  slaps  and  spars 
creak,  for  a  gale  is  rising  and  the  stars  are  hidden. 
The  fishermen  hear  again  the  wail,  "Tell  me  how 
to  get  to  Boston."  "Well,  not  that  way,  Idiot, 
you're  going  straight  into  the  Atlantic  Ocean." 
There  is  a  terrible  commotion  on  the  wharf,  the 
horse  almost  beats  it  through  with  his  hoofs. 
Then,  in  the  white  gleam  of  a  lightning  spear,  the 
chaise  is  seen  rocking,  shaking,  making  for  the 
road  above  and  turning  toward  Ipswich. 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  251 

Through  narrow  wood-tracks  where  hermit-thrushes 
pair,  staggers  the  yellow  one-horse  chair,  just 
ahead  of  a  lightning  flare.  Along  elm-shaded 
streets  of  little  towns,  the  high  wheels  roll,  and 
leaves  blow  down  on  the  man's  cocked  hat  and  the 
little  girl's  snood,  and  a  moment  later  comes  a 
flood  of  bright,  white  rain,  and  thunder  so  loud  it 
stops  the  blood. 

From  Kittery  Point  down  to  Cape  Cod,  trundle  the 
high,  turning  wheels;  they  rattle  at  the  Canadian 
line;  they  shine  in  the  last  saffron  glitter  of  an  ex- 
tinguishing sun  by  the  ferry  over  Lake  Cham- 
plain;  they  are  seen  again  as  the  moon  dips  into 
an  inky  cloud  passing  the  Stadium  in  East  Cam- 
bridge, the  driver  bowed  over  the  dasher  and  ply- 
ing his  whip;  they  flash  beside  graveyards,  and 
thunder  lashes  the  graveyard  trees.  Always  the 


252  LEGENDS 

chaise  flees  before  the  approaching  storm.  And 
always,  down  the  breeze,  blowing  backwards 
through  the  bending  trees,  comes  the  despairing 
wail  — "Boston!  —  For  the  love  of  God,  put  me 
on  the  road  to  Boston!"  Then  the  gale  grows 
louder,  lightning  spurts  and  dazzles,  and  steel- 
white  rain  falls  heavily  out  of  the  sky.  A  great 
clap  of  thunder,  and  purple-black  darkness  blind- 
ing the  earth. 


FOUR  SIDES  TO  A  HOUSE  253 


FOUR  SIDES  TO  A  HOUSE 

PETER,  Peter,  along  the  ground, 

Is  it  wind  I  hear,  or  your  shoes'  sound? 

Peter,  Peter,  across  the  air, 

Do  dead  leaves  fall,  or  is  it  your  hair? 

Peter,  Peter,  North  and  South, 

They  have  stopped  your  mouth 

With  water,  Peter. 

The  long  road  runs,  and  the  long  road  runs, 

Who  comes  over  the  long  road,  Peter? 
Who  knocks  at  the  door  in  the  cold  twilight, 
And  begs  a  heap  of  straw  for  the  night, 
And  a  bit  of  a  sup,  and  a  bit  of  a  bite  — 
Do  you  know  the  face,  Peter? 


254  LEGENDS 

He  lays  him  down  on  the  floor  and  sleeps. 

Must  you  wind  the  clock,  Peter? 
It  will  strike  and  strike  the  dark  night  through. 
He  will  sleep  past  one,  he  will  sleep  past  two, 
But  when  it  strikes  three  what  will  he  do? 

He  will  rise  and  kill  you,  Peter. 

He  will  open  the  door  to  one  without. 

Do  you  hear  that  voice,  Peter? 
Two  men  prying  and  poking  about, 
Is  it  here,  is  it  there,  is  it  in,  is  it  out? 
Cover  his  staring  eyes  with  a  clout. 

But  you're  dead,  dead,  Peter. 

They  have  ripped  up  the  boards,  they  have  pried 

up  the  stones, 

They  have  found  your  gold,  dead  Peter. 
Ripe,  red  coins  to  itch  a  thief's  hand, 


FOUR  SIDES  TO  A  HOUSE  255 

But  you  drip  ripe  red  on  the  floor's  white  sand, 
You  burn  their  eyes  like  a  firebrand. 
They  must  quench  you,  Peter. 

It  is  dark  in  the  North,  it  is  dark  in  the  South. 

The  wind  blows  your  white  hair,  Peter. 
One  at  your  feet  and  one  at  your  head. 
A  soft  bed,  a  smooth  bed, 
Scarcely  a  splash,  you  sink  like  lead. 

Sweet  water  in  your  well,  Peter. 

Along  the  road  and  along  the  road, 

The  next  house,  Peter. 

Four-square  to  the  bright  and  the  shade  of  the  moon. 
The  North  winds  shuffle,  the  South  winds  croon, 
Water  with  white  hair  over-strewn. 

The  door,  the  door,  Peter! 
Water  seeps  under  the  door. 


256  LEGENDS 

They  have  risen  up  in  the  morning  grey. 

What  will  they  give  to  Peter? 
The  sorrel  horse  with  the  tail  of  gold, 
Fastest  pacer  ever  was  foaled. 
Shoot  him,  skin  him,  blanch  his  bones, 
Nail  up  his  skull  with  a  silver  nail 
Over  the  door,  it  will  not  fail. 
No  ghostly  thing  can  ever  prevail 

Against  a  horse's  skull,  Peter. 

Over  the  lilacs,  gazing  down, 

Is  a  window,  Peter. 

The  North  winds  call,  and  the  South  winds  cry. 
Silver  white  hair  in  a  bitter  blowing, 
Eel-green  water  washing  by, 
A  red  mouth  floating  and  flowing. 

Do  you  come,  Peter? 


FOUR  SIDES  TO  A  HOUSE  257 

They  rose  as  the  last  star  sank  and  set. 

One  more  for  Peter. 

They  slew  the  black  mare  at  the  flush  of  the  sun, 
And  nailed  her  skull  to  the  window-stone. 
In  the  light  of  the  moon  how  white  it  shone  — 

And  your  breathing  mouth,  Peter! 


Aro 


und  the  house,  and  around  the  house, 
With  a  wind  that  is  North,  and  a  wind  that  is  South, 

Peter,  Peter. 

Mud  and  ooze  and  a  dead  man's  wrist 
Wrenching  the  shutters  apart,  like  mist 
The  mud  and  the  ooze  and  the  dead  man  twist. 

They  are  praying,  Peter. 

Three  in  stable  a  week  ago. 
This  is  the  last,  Peter. 


258  LEGENDS 

"My  strawberry  roan  in  the  morning  clear, 
Lady  heart  and  attentive  ear, 
Foot  like  a  kitten,  nose  like  a  deer, 
But  the  fear!  The  fear!" 
Three  skulls,  Peter. 

The  sun  goes  down,  and  the  night  draws  in. 

Toward  the  hills,  Peter. 
What  lies  so  stiff  on  the  hill-room  floor, 
When  the  gusty  wind  claps  to  the  door? 
They  have  paid  three  horses  and  two  men  more. 

Gather  your  gold,  Peter. 

Softly,  softly,  along  the  ground 
Lest  your  shoes  sound. 
Gently,  gently,  across  the  air 
Lest  it  stream,  your  hair. 
North  and  South 


FOUR  SIDES  TO  A  HOUSE  259 

For  your  aching  mouth. 

But  the  moon  is  old,  Peter, 

And  death  is  long,  and  the  well  is  deep. 

Can  you  sleep,  sleep,  Peter? 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


fTlHE  following  pages  contain  advertise- 
•*•   ments  of  books  by  the  same  author 


Pictures  of  the  Floating  World 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Fourth  edition 

"  The  heart  of  the  volume  is  a  garden. . . .  The  book  is  as  local  as  the 
'  Hesperides,'  and  as  deeply  pervaded  by  the  spell  of  the  genius  of  a  place. 
The  beauty  that  knocks  at  the  gates  of  the  senses  lies  on  page  after  page 
with  a  clarity  and  an  almost  radiant  succinctness  for  which  I  know  few 
parallels. .  .  .  Surpassing  and  (I  think)  enduring  beauty."  —  PROFESSOR 
JOHN  LIVINGSTON  LOWES  in  The  Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  is  a  book  of  impressions,  fleeting  and  delicate,  yet  keenly  and  vividly 
defined.  . .  .  Here  we  have  imagism  at  its  best;  a  lovely  gesture  caught  at  its 
highest  curve  of  grace,  symbolizing  a  universal  emotion.  .  .  .  Originality 
and  individuality  are  precious  qualities,  and  Miss  Lowell  possesses  them 
beyond  any  other  living  poet  we  can  think  of."  — N.  Y.  Times  Book  Review. 

"  There  is  a  riot  of  fancy  here,  a  confused  luxuriance  as  rich  and  tropical 
as  the  garden  which  seems  to  be  the  centre  of  Miss  Lowell's  lyric  inspira- 
tion. ...  A  lyrical  undertone  pervades  even  the  least  musical  of  the  poems 
in  the  introspective  section  excellently  entitled  'Plummets  to  Circumstance,' 
and  a  dramatic  touch  intensifies  them.  Miss  Lowell  makes  even  the  most 
casual  descriptions  ...  an  adventure  in  excitement.  With  its  multiform 
interest,  its  increase  in  human  warmth,  and,  above  all,  with  its  rich  mingling 
of  personality  and  pattern-making,  'Pictures  of  the  Floating  World'  may 
well  come  to  be  Miss  Lowell's  most  popular  book."  —  Louis  UNTERMEYER 
in  The  New  York  Evening  Post. 

"There  is  a  soft  enchanted  quietness  blown  about  'Lacquer  Prints,' 
drenched  as  they  are  with  the  influence  of  Japan  till  they  crust  to  a  porce- 
lain frailer  than  the  lining  of  a  bird's  egg,  or  the  flushed  enamel  of  a  sea- 
buried  shell.  Life  and  movement  are  subdued  to  a  thin  stem  holding  an 
open  flower.  They  are  pure  colour  expressed  in  curving  lines  drawn  over 
thoughts  so  intimate  they  shrink,  even  in  reading,  back  to  solitude.  Pro- 
found and  lovely.  .  . .  That  is  it.  The  offering  of  her  own  vision  to  unob- 
servant eyes,  the  breaking  of  innumerable  barriers,  for,  among  all  poets, 
Miss  Lowell  is  essentially  an  explorer."  —  W.  BRYHER  in  The  Art  of  Amy 
Lowell.  A  Critical  Appreciation.  London. 

"  In  '  The  Floating  World' .  . .  Amy  Lowell  has  shown  us  again  that  she 
can  make  a  thick  volume  of  verse  as  entertaining  as  a  book  of  pictures. 
She  makes  pictures  ir  verse  again  and  again,  and  all  her  pictures  are  in- 
vested with  a  touch  of  human  passion  or  fantasy."  —  The  New  Republic. 


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Can  Grande's  Castle 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 


Fourth  edition 


"  The  poems  in  '  Can  Grande's  Castle '  are  only  four  in  number,  but  two  of 
them  .  .  .  touch  magnificence.  '  The  Bronze  Horses'  has  a  larger  sweep  than 
Miss  Lowell  has  ever  attempted;  she  achieves  here  a  sense  of  magnitude  and 
time  that  is  amazing.  . . .  Not  in  all  contemporary  poetry  has  the  quality  of 
balance  and  return  been  so  beautifully  illustrated."  —  Louis  UNTERMEYER 
in  The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry. 

"  '  Can  Grande's  Castle '  challenges,  through  its  vividness  and  contagious 
zest  in  life  and  color,  an  unreluctant  admiration  ...  its  rare  union  of  vigor 
and  deftness,  precision  and  flexibility,  imaginative  grasp  and  clarity  of 
detail."  —  PROFESSOR  JOHN  LIVINGSTON  LOWES  in  Convention  and  Revolt 
in  Poetry. 

"  'Sea-Blue  and  Blood-Red'  and  'Guns  as  Keys:  and  the  Great  Gate 
Swings'  ...  are  such  a  widening  of  barriers;  they  bring  into  literature  an 
element  imperceptible  in  poetry  before  ...  the  epic  of  modernity  concen- 
trated into  thirty  pages. .  . .  Not  since  the  Elizabethans  has  such  a  mastery 
of  words  been  reached  in  English  . . .  one  had  never  surmised  such  enchant- 
ment could  have  been  achieved  with  words."  —  W.  BRYHER  in  The  Art  oj 
Amy  Lowell.  A  Critical  Appreciation.  London. 

"  The  essential  element  of  Miss  Lowell's  poetry  is  vividness,  vividness  and 
a  power  to  concentrate  into  a  few  pages  the  spirit  of  an  age.  She  indicates 
perfectly  the  slightest  sense  of  atmosphere  in  a  period  or  a  city.  . . .  But  the 
spirit  of  these  poems  is  not  the  fashioning  of  pictures,  however  brilliant,  of 
the  past;  it  is  the  re-creation  of  epic  moments  of  history  made  real  as  this 
present  through  her  own  individuality  and  vision."  —  The  London  Nation. 

"  We  have  come  to  it  —  once  Poe  was  the  living  and  commanding  poet, 
whose  things  were  waited  for. . . .  Now  we  watch  and  wait  for  Amy  Low- 
ell's poems.  Success  justifies  her  work. . . .  Each  separate  poem  in  '  Can 
Grande's  Castle'  is  a  real  and  true  poem  of  remarkable  power  —  a  work  of 
imagination,  a  moving  and  beautiful  thing." — JOSEPH  E.  CHAMBERLAIN  in 
The  Boston  Transcript. 

"'Can  Grande's  Castle'  is,  in  the  opinion  of  the  present  reviewer,  not 
only  the  best  book  which  Miss  Lowell  has  so  far  written,  but  a  great  book 
per  se. ...  It  is  a  frank  and  revealing  book.  It  deals  with  fundamentals. . . . 
In  '  Sea-Blue  and  Blood-Red'  we  have  the  old  story  of  Nelson  and  'mad, 
whole-hearted  Lady  Hamilton'  retold  in  a  style  that  dazzles  and  excites 
like  golden  standards  won  from  the  enemy  passing  in  procession  with  the 
sun  upon  them."  —  The  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 


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Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Fifth  edition 

"...  In  the  poem  which  gave  its  name  to  a  previous  volume,  '  Sword 
Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,'  Miss  Lowell  uttered  her  Credo  with  rare  sincerity 
and  passion.  Not  since  Elizabeth  Barrett's '  Vision  of  Poets'  has  there  been 
such  a  confession  of  faith  in  the  mission  of  poetry,  such  a  stern  compulsion 
of  dedication  laid  upon  the  poet.  And  in  her  latest  work  we  find  proof  that 
she  has  lived  according  to  her  confession  and  her  dedication  with  a  singleness 
of  purpose  seldom  encountered  in  our  fluid  time. 

"  'Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts'  is  a  book  greatly  and  strenuously  imagined. 
. . .  Miss  Lowell  is  a  great  romantic.  .  .  .  She  belongs  to  the  few  who,  in 
every  generation,  feel  that  poetry  is  a  high  calling,  and  who  press  undevi- 
atingly  toward  the  mark.  They  are  few,  and  they  are  frequently  lonely, 
but  they  lead."  —  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 

". . .  'The  Hammers'  is  a  really  thrilling  piece  of  work;  the  skill  with 
which  it  is  divided  into  different  moods  and  motifs  is  something  more  than 
a  tour  de  force.  The  way  the  different  hammers  are  characterized  and 
given  voice,  the  varying  music  wrung  from  them  (from  the  ponderous  bang- 
ing of  the  hammers  at  the  building  of  the  '  Bellerophon'  to  their  light  tap- 
ping as  they  pick  off  the  letters  of  Napoleon's  victories  on  the  arch  of  the 
Place  du  Carrousel),  the  emphasis  with  which  they  reveal  a  whole  period  — 
these  are  the  things  one  sees  rarely."  —  Louis  UNTERMEYER  in  the  Chicago 
Evening  Post. 

"...  Beautiful . . .  poetry  as  authentic  as  any  we  know.  It  is  individual, 
innocent  of  echo  and  imitation,  with  the  uniqueness  that  comes  of  personal 
genius. . . .  Miss  Lowell  strives  to  get  into  words  the  effects  of  the  painter's 
palette  and  the  musician's  score.  And  life  withal.  Does  she  succeed?  I 
should  say  she  does,  and  the  first  poem  in  this  book,  'Patterns,'  is  a  brilliant, 
aesthetic  achievement  in  a  combination  of  story,  imagism,  and  symbolism. 
'  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts '  is  a  volume  that  contains  beautiful  poetry  for 
all  readers  who  have  the  root  of  the  matter  in  them."  —  Reedy' 's  Mirror, 
St.  Louis. 

"  The  most  original  of  all  the  young  American  writers  of  to-day."  —  The 
New  Age,  London. 

"Brilliant  is  the  term  for  'Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts'  —  praise  which 
holds  good  when  the  book  is  put  to  the  test  of  a  third  reading."  —  EDWARD 
GARNETT  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


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Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Fifth  edition 

OPINIONS  OF  LEADING  REVIEWERS 

"Against  the  multitudinous  array  of  daily  verse  our  times  produce  this 
volume  utters  itself  with  a  range  and  brilliancy  wholly  remarkable.  I  can- 
not see  that  Miss  Lowell's  use  of  unrhymed  vers  libre  has  been  surpassed  in 
English.  Read  'The  Captured  Goddess,'  'Music,'  and  'The  Precinct. 
Rochester,'  a  piece  of  mastercraft  in  this  kind.  A  wealth  of  subtleties  and 
sympathies,  gorgeously  wrought,  full  of  macabre  effects  (as  many  of  the 
poems  are)  and  brilliantly  worked  out.  The  things  of  splendor  she  has 
made  she  will  hardly  outdo  in  their  kind."  —  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEA- 
BODY,  The  Boston  Herald. 

"  For  quaint  pictorial  exactitude  and  bizarrerie  of  color  these  poems  re- 
mind one  of  Flemish  masters  and  Dutch  tulip  gardens;  again,  they  are  fine 
and  fantastic,  like  Venetian  glass;  and  they  are  all  curiously  flooded  with 
the  moonlight  of  dreams. . . .  Miss  Lowell  has  a  remarkable  gift  of  what  one 
might  call  the  dramatic-decorative.  Her  decorative  imagery  is  intensely 
dramatic,  and  her  dramatic  pictures  are  in  themselves  vivid  and  fantastic 
decorations."  —  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE,  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 

"  Such  poems  as  'A  Lady,'  '  Music,'  '  White  and  Green,'  are  wellnigh 
uawless  in  their  beauty  —  perfect '  images.' "  —  HARRIET  MONROE,  Poetry. 

"  Her  most  notable  quality  appears  in  the  opening  passage  of  the  volume. 
The  sharply  etched  tones  and  contours  of  this  picture  are  characteristic  of 

the  author's  work .  In  '  unrhymed  cadence '  Miss  Lowell's  cadences  are 

sometimes  extremely  delicate,  as  in  'The  Captured  Goddess.'"  —  ARTHUR 
DAVISON  FICKE,  Chicago  Dial. 


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A  Dome  of  Many-Coloured  Glass 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Fifth  edition 

"These  poems  arouse  interest,  and  justify  it  by  the  result.  Miss  Lowell 
is  the  sister  of  President  Lowell  of  Harvard.  Her  art,  however,  needs  no 
reflection  from  such  distinguished  influence  to  make  apparent  its  distinc- 
tion. Such  verse  as  this  is  delightful,  has  a  sort  of  personal  flavour,  a  loyalty 
to  the  fundamentals  of  life  and  nationality.  . . .  The  child  poems  are  par- 
ticularly graceful."  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  Boston,  Mass. 

"  Miss  Lowell  has  given  expression  in  exquisite  form  to  many  beautiful 
thoughts,  inspired  by  a  variety  of  subjects  and  based  on  some  of  the  loft- 
iest ideals. . . . 

"The  verses  are  grouped  under  the  captions '  Lyrical  Poems,' '  Sonnets,' 
and  '  Verses  for  Children.' . .  . 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  these  are  the  most  successful.  Indeed,  all 
reveal  Miss  Lowell's  powers  of  observation  from  the  view-point  of  a  lover 
of  nature.  Moreover,  Miss  Lowell  writes  with  a  gentle  philosophy  and  a 
deep  knowledge  of  humanity. . . . 

"The  sonnets  are  especially  appealing  and  touch  the  heart  strings  so 
tenderly  that  there  comes  immediate  response  in  the  same  spirit.  . . . 

"  That  she  knows  the  workings  of  the  juvenile  mind  is  plainly  indicated 
by  her  verses  written  for  their  reading."  —  Boston  Sunday  Globe,  Boston, 
Mass. 

"  A  quite  delightful  little  collection  of  verses."  —  Toronto  Globe,  Toronto, 
Canada. 

"The  Lyrics  are  true  to  the  old  definition;  they  would  sing  well  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  strings.  We  should  like  to  hear  '  Hora  Stellatrix' 
rendered  by  an  artist."  —  Hartford  Courant,  Hartford,  Conn. 

"Verses  that  show  delicate  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and  imagina- 
tive quality.  A  sonnet  entitled  '  Dreams '  is  peculiarly  full  of  sympathy  and 
feeling."  —  The  Sun,  Baltimore,  Md. 


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Six  French  Poets 

STUDIES  IN  CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE 
BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Third  edition,  illustrated 

A  brilliant  series  of  biographical  and  critical  essays  dealing  with  Emile 
Verhaeren,  Albert  Samain,  Remy  de  Gourmont,  Henri  de  Regnier,  Francis 
Jammes,  and  Paul  Fort,  by  one  of  the  foremost  living  American  poets.  The 
translations  make  up  an  important  part  of  the  book,  and  together  with  the 
French  originals  constitute  a  representative  anthology  of  the  poetry  of  the 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  Professor  of  English  Literature,  Yale  University, 
says: 

"  This  is,  I  think,  the  most  valuable  work  on  contemporary  French  liter- 
ature that  I  have  seen  for  a  long  time.  It  is  written  by  one  who  has  a  thor- 
ough knowledge  of  the  subject  and  who  is  herself  an  American  poet  of  dis- 
tinction. She  has  the  knowledge,  the  sympathy,  the  penetration,  and  the 
insight  —  all  necessary  to  make  a  notable  book  of  criticism.  It  is  a  work 
that  should  be  widely  read  in  America." 

"  In  her  '  Six  French  Poets'  I  find  a  stimulating  quality  of  a  high  order. 
...  I  defy  any  English  critic  to  rise  from  this  book  without  the  feeling  that 
he  has  gained  considerably.  This  is  the  first  volume  in  English  to  contain 
a  minute  and  careful  study  of  these  French  writers."  —  CLEMENT  K. 
SHORTER  in  The  Sphere,  London. 

"  I  can  conceive  of  no  greater  pleasure  than  that  of  a  lover  of  poetry  who 
reads  in  Miss  Lowell's  book  about  modern  French  poetry  for  the  first  time; 
it  must  be  like  falling  into  El  Dorado."  —  F.  S.  FLINT,  formerly  French 
critic  of  Poetry  and  Drama,  London,  in  The  Little  Review. 

"Amy  Lowell's  '  French  Poets' . . .  ought  to  be  labelled  like  Pater's  stud- 
ies 'Appreciations,'  so  full  of  charm  are  its  penetrative  interpretations  . . . 
and  it  is  not  too  bold  to  say  that  her  introductions  to  and  interpretations  of 
French  poets  will  live  as  long  as  interest  in  these  poets  themselves  lives. 
Her  book  is  a  living  and  lasting  piece  of  criticism  ...  a  masterly  volume." 
—  New  York  Sun. 

"A  very  admirable  piece  of  work."  —  The  London  Bookman. 

"  Une  tres  interessante  etude."  —  La  France. 

"An  excellent  book."  —  EMILE  CAMMAERTS  in  The  Athenaeum,  London. 

"  Miss  Lowell  has  done  a  real  service  to  literature.  One  must  be  limited, 
indeed,  who  fails  to  appreciate  the  power  of  these  writers  as  set  forth  through 
the  comment,  the  discriminating  extracts,  and  the  appended  prose  transla- 
tions in  her  book."  —  North  American  Review. 


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Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Third  edition,  illustrated 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  insisting  that  Miss  Amy  Lowell's  '  Tendencies 
in  Modern  American  Poetry '  is  one  of  the  most  striking  volumes  of  criticism 
that  has  appeared  in  recent  years."  —  CLEMENT  K.  SHORTER  in  The 
Sphere,  London. 

"  In  her  recent  volume,  'Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry,'  Miss 
Lowell  employs  this  method  (the  historical)  with  excellent  results —  .  We 
feel  throughout  a  spirit  of  mingled  courage,  kindness,  and  independence 
illuminating  the  subject,  and  the  result  is  the  note  of  personality  that  is  so 
priceless  in  criticism,  yet  which,  unhoneyed  on  the  one  hand  or  uncrabbed 
on  the  other,  is  so  hard  to  come  by  ...  her  latest  book  leaves  with  the  reader 
a  strong  impression  of  the  most  simple  and  unaffected  integrity."  —  HELEN 
BULLIS  KIZER  in  The  North  American  Review. 

"  A  new  criticism  has  to  be  created  to  meet  not  only  the  work  of  the  new 
artists  but  also  the  uncritical  hospitality  of  current  taste. . .  .  That  is  why  a 
study  such  as  Miss  Amy  Lowell's  on  recent  tendencies  in  American  verse  is 
so  significant.  . . .  Her  very  tone  is  revolutionary.  . . .  Poetry  appears  for 
the  first  time  on  our  critical  horizon  ...  as  a  sound  and  important  activity 
of  contemporary  American  life."  —  RANDOLPH  BOURNE  in  The  Dial. 

"  Its  real  worth  as  criticism  and  its  greater  worth  as  testimony  are  in- 
valuable." —  O.  W.  FIRKINS  in  The  Nation. 

"  The  feeling  she  has  for  poetry  is  so  genuine  and  catholic  and  instructed, 
and  her  acquaintance  with  modern  activity  so  energetic,  that  she  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  and  illuminating  persons  with  whom  to  visit  the  new 
poets,  led  by  the  hand."  —  New  Republic. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


Lowell,   Amy 
35^3  Legends 


1921 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY