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From the pier to the boat-house and far down the


Flutters back to the group at the old farm-house door

The word that I'm coming: and from wrinkled old hands,

As the dear old feet toil through the weary white sands,

Bringing welcome and welcome, from boat-house
and strand,

The hurrying, white-winged signals all come -
God pity the mortal who has never come home.

And I? I'm not worth it. But gray eyes and blue!
While the storms beat about me, O dear hearts and

Or the fogs flinging far, blot the stars from the blue,
If the pole star leads on or the rudder swings true,
It's not heaven I'm after I'm coming to you.

"But heaven it will be when down the blue dome Flutter out the white signals that I'm coming home."

When Jason finished reading we sat silent for awhile. The sun was still high in the west, but the screen of the woods made all about us dim with shadows. The birds overhead in the leaves were piping soft and sweet; it was the beginning of vespers. As if charmed, we listened and dreamed. Psyche was the first to break the spell. She arose from her seat on the ground. "What is it in such a poem as that, homely, plain, about an ordinary event, which makes one feel a deep and


satisfying sense of poetry?" she asked, as if expecting the air to answer.

"It is something we all come back to from the crocheting of art," Jason volunteered to explain. "The simple human quality of it. Its lack of pretensions of any kind; its common impulse. It is the poetry of Mr. Cheney's

"The happiest heart that ever beat

Was in some quiet breast

That found the common daylight sweet

And left to heaven the rest

he said, as we started for The Farm.




THE day was brilliant, and Jason came up to The Farm with an air of assurance about him which was interesting to watch as he swung across the fields. I had arrived earlier, and with Psyche and Cassandra had walked down to the river behind The Farm. We returned in time to see Jason get off the car. Usually he moved along as if he expected the earth to stop spinning, and if that miraculous disaster were to happen, he wished to break the shock as much as possible by the resiliency of his body. "It could do nothing more than throw me flat where I stood," he used to say; " and there I could perish comfortably from inanition. You people who walk with a stiff spine will not only have your spines broken but will be thrown as from a catapult into space like the devil and his angels, without the comfortable assurance of landing into the sovereignty of another hell.” And so with his fine figure he came perilously near to shuffling about. Jason was an extraordinary fellow in many ways, and I always believed that this manner was simply one of his self-indulgences. Almost any time I anticipated a new aspect of the man as startling as it was sudden. And here he

was beating his way across the field, swinging his stick with the vigor and glow of a young god. We awaited him in front of the house; as he crossed the road from the field, I began to read in a loud voice, these lines,

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'The man Flammonde, from God knows where,
With firm address and foreign air,

With news of nations in his talk
And something royal in his walk,
With glint of iron in his eyes,
But never doubt, nor yet surprise,
Appeared, and stayed, and held his head
As one by kings accredited."

"A fine compliment," Jason acknowledged, with a stately bow which was meant for a greeting as well. "Robinson could describe a man, eh?" he


"Oh, many men and many kinds," I amended. "But come, luncheon is ready, and dear Mrs. Dan has a prodigious supply of delicious gems."

"Yes," called Mrs. Dan from the porch; " and if you don't come quick they will be cold."

So we went in to lunch still quite mystified as to the cause of Jason's new aspect.

It was when we entered the woods an hour later that the secret began to clear up. No sooner had we got under the leaves than Janson pulled a small red book from his pocket and began to read. these are the verses:

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Most of you had better say
'The Dark House,' and go your way.
Do not wonder if I stay.

“For I know the Demon's eyes,
And their lure that never dies.
Banish all your fond alarms,
For I know the foiling charms
Of her eyes and of her arms,

"And I know that in one room
Burns a lamp as in a tomb;
And I see the shadow glide,
Back and forth, of one denied
Power to find himself outside.

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"And the friend who knows him best Sees him as he sees the rest

Who are striving to be wise
While a Demon's arms and eyes
Hold them as a web would flies.

"All the words of all the world,
Aimed together and then hurled,
Would be stiller in his ears
Than a closing of still shears
On a thread made out of years.

"But there lives another sound, More compelling, more profound;

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