CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3505.H2422R9 
 
 Rush-light stories 
 
 3 1924 022 322 873 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022322873 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 MAUD H. CHAPIN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
Copyright, 1918, by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
TO 
 
 R. S. C. 
 
 THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Ushebti's Love Stoet 3 
 
 The Eose of Jericho ....... 23 
 
 The House of Father Snail 31 
 
 The Weather Cock 49 
 
 Thp Tapissier of Notre Dame .... 57 
 
 The Golden Chrysalis 73 
 
 The Windmill 83 
 
 The Marionettes 97 
 
 The Zodiac 105 
 
 The Potter 133 
 
 The Sea Horses 145 
 
 Abdhil Eahman 155 
 
 The Clock of St. Gudule 167 
 
 The Legend of the River 177 
 
 Ars Longa 187 
 
THE TJSHEBTI'S LOVE STORY 
 
THE USHEBTI'S LOVE STOKY 
 
 HP WILIGHT was falling and the lights of the 
 ■*■ Strand began to glow like fireflies above the 
 hurrying throngs. In the distance, the great square 
 revealed a space of sky where the fires of sunset 
 contended with the fog and smoke of the city. From 
 its midst, a column soared upward, while below 
 crouched the lions of Trafalgar, majestic in their re- 
 pose. Patiently they submitted their backs to the 
 adventurous gamins who rode them ingloriously, 
 or sat between their outstretched paws, as once a 
 Queen of Egypt rested in the arms of the Sphinx. 
 In an old house, overlooking this scene, there 
 lived a French savant and collector of Greek and 
 Egyptian antiquities. The walls of Monsieur Aris- 
 tide's study presented an unbroken array of chests 
 and cabinets. Some 1 contained rare collections of 
 Greek and Syrian glass, which glowed in the fad- 
 ing light like jeweled forms of opal, ruby and sap- 
 phire. Other cabinets were devoted to Egyptian 
 
 3 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 vases and scarabs, while still others held faience and 
 bronzes from Greece. A large table, piled with 
 manuscripts, catalogues and volumes of reference, 
 occupied the embrasure of the window. In the 
 midst of this confusion some boxes had been un- 
 packed and, from their wrappings of cotton wool, 
 two little figures had emerged and stood near each 
 other in an open space left for their display. The 
 room was empty and the waning day revealed their 
 forms in a sympathetic light. Each one bore the 
 patina of decay and time had caressed them lightly, 
 endowing them with the ineffable charm of an- 
 tiquity, while leaving their forms but slightly muti- 
 lated. 
 
 The newcomers looked about them in some per- 
 plexity as to their strange surroundings, and at 
 each other with unfeigned amazement. The still- 
 ness was broken only by the occasional falling of a 
 cinder from the hearth fire and the roar of the 
 city, which enveloped them like the murmur of a 
 great shell. The female figure represented an ex- 
 quisite nymph partly veiled by a drapery which 
 fell from her shoulders and which still glowed with 
 a faint rose color. Its rippling folds both revealed 
 and obscured her limbs and she stood as though 
 but just arrested in the movement of some dance, 
 the embodiment of an imperishable beauty. One 
 4 
 
THE USHEBTI'S LOVE STORY 
 
 arm, raised above her head, had evidently held some 
 object — a bunch of grapes, perhaps, or a mirror, 
 but which had been broken off and lost. Her feet 
 were poised as lightly as the winged seeds of a 
 flower which alternately light and fly. But, alas, 
 some toes were missing from the right foot and 
 one delicate breast was defaced and mended. Such 
 as she was, stood Althea, a smile on her lips and a 
 look of pensive thought in her eyes. 
 
 Her companion was as different as their two 
 races. He came from Egypt, where he had been 
 born a thousand years before our era. His figure 
 was stouter and more heavily modeled than the 
 nymph's and his arms were folded on his breast 
 with an immobility which characterized his whole 
 person. A blue tunic was modestly drawn about 
 him like the cerements of a mummy, and truth 
 obliges me to confess that he was somewhat blue 
 all over. Dignity sat upon every feature and, while 
 he did not look his age, he seemed to have lived a 
 life of suppressed emotions. Owing to his pose 
 and the swathing of his limbs, he had escaped muti- 
 lation. 
 
 At first sight, Althea fancied his nose had suf- 
 fered some injury, not being familiar with the low 
 relief esteemed in that feature by the Egyptians. 
 His back was flat and unmodeled, as though very 
 
 5 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 little had been expected of it in his life time. In 
 fact, he had never been permitted to turn his back, 
 for he had been a servant and only presented his 
 face to the commands of his master. A black band, 
 or fillet, passed round his calm brow and was tied 
 in a very modern looking bow at the back of his 
 head; a sack slung from the shoulders completed 
 his accoutrements. He stood on a pedestal and his 
 robe was of a shade to bring water to the eyes of a 
 collector. Blue, ah, but what a blue ! A tinge of 
 the green waters of the Nile had shot through it; 
 silver from the sands of Egypt formed the gleam 
 upon it, and age had powdered it with an inde- 
 scribable iridescence. The merest amateur would 
 have sensed his preciousness and the Bacchante 
 realized that here, indeed, was a personage, al- 
 though the strangest she had ever seen. That he 
 was a poor dancer she felt convinced, but that he 
 might make up in intellect for his awkwardness, she 
 thought not unlikely. The type was new and 
 piquant, and Althea decided to address him. 
 
 "Do you dance?" she inquired in a silvery voice 
 that suggested the tones of a viol d'amore. 
 
 ' ' Dance ? ' ' replied Ushebti, ' ' I had no time in my 
 life for such trifling amusements. I have served in 
 the Nether-world for three thousand years and 
 more. ' ' 
 
 6 
 
THE VSHEBTVS LOVE STORY 
 
 His companion shuddered and drew back a little. 
 "Let us not dwell on darkness and depressing con- 
 ditions," she cried. "Only sunlight and joy exist 
 for the Bacchante." 
 
 "In that eternal night," continued the Egyp- 
 tian, unheeding her words, "I lost track of the 
 years of my servitude and I was amazed when the 
 collector, Monsieur Aristide, gave my age as one 
 thousand years B. C. — whatever that may mean." 
 
 "What?" exclaimed Althea, "you are then as 
 old as the gods of my native land, and to think how 
 well you are preserved! You must have had the 
 most intelligent excavators, and a dry soil." 
 ' ' ' The Delta of the Lower Nile, ' ' said the Ushebti 
 proudly. 
 
 "I never heard of them," she replied, "but 
 doubtless they were persons who knew their busi- 
 ness. Did you exercise in the gymnasiums to pre- 
 serve your straight, slim lines?" 
 
 "Work, not play," answered the Egyptian, "has 
 made me what I am. " 
 
 A little damped in her conversational efforts, 
 Althea drew her veil more closely about her and 
 looked down at her injured foot. The Ushebti fol- 
 lowed her gaze. A reluctant sympathy stirred his 
 reserved nature. Who and what was this creature, 
 fair as the lotus flower of his far away country? 
 
 7 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 "You were doubtless too beautiful to work," he 
 continued, more gently, "but even in play you 
 seem to have injured your foot. How did that 
 occur?" 
 
 "It was a stupid accident on the part of the ex- 
 cavators. You must know that I was a nymph and 
 danced and worshipped in the temple of Bacchus. 
 We drank libations made from the grapes that cov- 
 ered the bill sides of Cypress, and we joined in the 
 wild Bacchanals held in honor of the god. I had 
 a hundred lovers among the satyrs. But suddenly, 
 in the full glory of our youth, at stream of lava, 
 broad and rapid as a river, broke from the mountain 
 where we worshipped, and descended like molten 
 lead, burying the temple and spreading over the 
 whole valley. Beneath that avalanche I have lain 
 for centuries. Then the long forgotten shrine was 
 discovered. Down in our tombs we heard the sound 
 of digging and the sharp blow of the pickaxe among 
 the ruined marbles. Gradually its buried votaries 
 were brought to the light. I was one, and in the 
 efforts of the excavators to dislodge me from the 
 classic debris, they injured my foot. I would rather 
 they had broken my arm, for my feet were so per- 
 fect. They barbarously destroyed my golden mir- 
 ror which I held in this hand, and in which I loved 
 to look. Now it is gone forever. Alas!" she con- 
 8 
 
THE USHEBTI'S LOVE STORY 
 
 tinued, tears overflowing her eyes, "How shall I 
 see to twine the grape leaves in my hair ; how shall 
 I know if I am still beautiful?" 
 
 "Do not weep," cried the Egyptian, "for there 
 are here no bottles to contain your tears and they 
 will be wasted. I will be your mirror and each 
 day tell you of your loveliness." 
 
 She smiled and wafted him a kiss, which the 
 Egyptian received with amazement, but without 
 understanding its significance. In the days of 
 the Ptolmies, the Ushebtis did not kiss. Pan could 
 have taught them the very rudiments of love mak- 
 ing. 
 
 "Why do you make that gesture?" he inquired 
 gravely, yet curiously. ' ' What does it signify ? ' ' 
 
 Althea blushed; certainly this was a na'ive for- 
 eigner, and yet she did not dislike him for a certain 
 aloofness. The satyrs had really been too demon- 
 strative. Never before had she felt any embarrass- 
 ment about kissing, but how explain to an unedu- 
 cated mind just what it meant? 
 
 "Have you wasted thousands of years without 
 kissing any one?" 
 
 "I come from Egypt," replied Ushebti, with dig- 
 nity. "Our customs are altogether different. 
 Death, not life, has occupied most of my time and 
 thoughts. ' ' 
 
 9 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 "Then you instinctively associate life with a 
 kiss?" exclaimed Althea, amazed. "Your mind 
 correlates wonderfully ! " 
 
 "The mind of Egypt has been the wonder of the 
 world. Before Greece was, we were a people learned 
 in the Eeligion of the Dead. Our tombs are the 
 most magnificent in history, our Pyramids belong 
 to the Seven Wonders of the World and the wisdom 
 of all Time is personified in the Egyptian Sphinx." 
 
 "The Sphinx must have come to Greece then," 
 replied Althea, "for she sat upon a rocky eminence 
 near the city of Thebes." 
 
 "Impossible," cried Ushebti. 
 
 "Not at all, for it took a Greek to answer her 
 riddle which had baffled the world. (Edipus solved 
 it, and in her despair the Sphinx flung herself from 
 the precipice and perished in the abyss." 
 
 "Impossible!" cried again the excited Ushebti. 
 "The Sphinx reposes to this day on the sands of 
 the Egyptian Desert, a gigantic figure of hooded 
 mystery." 
 
 ' ' Have you ever seen her ? ' ' demanded Althea. 
 
 "No, but others have. Have you seen your The- 
 ban Sphinx?" 
 
 Althea shook her head nonchalantly. "She was 
 vanquished and perished long before I was born." 
 
 "There is a mystery here," replied the Egyptian 
 10 
 
THE USHEBTI'S LOVE STORY 
 
 solemnly, "which I cannot solve. But one thing I 
 know, we alone, by our arts, preserved the dead for 
 thousands of years." 
 
 "How depressing your country must be! What 
 arts have you to preserve the living?" exclaimed 
 the Nymph pettishly, moving her feet as though 
 impatient to dance away the dismal impression. ' ' It 
 was all life, in Greece, all sunshine, beauty and the 
 fire of love. We worshipped gods who felt and 
 loved as we did, and who differed from mortals 
 only in being greater and more beautiful." 
 
 "Nevertheless, out of it all came death," replied 
 Ushebti gravely. ' ' You were buried alive more com- 
 pletely than I. My education had accustomed me 
 to the idea of one day leaving this life and taking 
 my place at the side of my departed Master, and 
 of following him into the Nether-world where my 
 ministrations would be unending. Until the day 
 our tomb was entered, I knew not that it was dark, 
 cold and damp from the age-long inundations of the 
 Nile. I was wakened from my slumber and brought 
 back to enter a second time the life of earth, whereas 
 you were overtaken in the midst of your pagan 
 practices and were ill-prepared for the tomb. You 
 were choked to death, and your spirit died in the 
 lava bed where you lay." 
 
 "How do you know?" exclaimed Althea indig- 
 11 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 nantly, "that the Greeks possessed no immortality? 
 For us death was the entrance to the Elysian 
 Fields." 
 
 "Did you work in those fields? Were you use- 
 ful there?" 
 
 The eyes of the dancer sank before this skeptical 
 questioning, and she covered her face with her veil. 
 Seeing her thus overcome, the Ushebti uncrossed his 
 arms, and, leaving his pedestal, advanced a step 
 toward the weeping Althea. He hesitated a mo- 
 ment and then said: "We in Egypt had religious 
 and ceremonial dances, but they were, I judge, of 
 a different character from those practised in the 
 
 Bacchanalias you describe. Could you ?" he 
 
 paused, lowered his large almond eyes, heavily 
 fringed, and made the astounding request: "Could 
 you give me an example of your dancing?" 
 
 Silence followed for a moment and then Althea 
 burst into wild, silvery laughter. She raised her 
 beautiful arms and, extending her drapery like 
 the gauzy wings of a butterfly, began to sway to 
 and fro. Her form was so white that the Ushebti 
 stood abashed before a beauty of which he had never 
 dreamed. What were the swart maidens of Egypt 
 compared with this creature of the sea foam ? What 
 eyes she had, blue as the iris flower of the Nile! 
 Gold was worn by Kings in Egypt, yet this maid- 
 12 
 
THE VSHEBTVS LOVE STORY 
 
 en's head was crowned with gold. Something came 
 to life and fluttered in the breast of Ushebti. It was 
 not a scarab, for only the great were embalmed with 
 the sacred beetle in place of their dead hearts. No, 
 it was something more personal. 
 
 Exquisitely Althea danced with a wild abandon 
 as different from the stiff, conventional movements 
 of the Egyptian dancers, as the flight of a butterfly 
 is different from the heavy motion of the beetle — 
 soon, however, she stopped. Her face wore a look 
 of pain and she held up her injured foot, glancing 
 toward the severe Ushebti with a sorrow that made 
 her lovelier than her joy, and to which she aban- 
 doned herself as suddenly and completely as she 
 did to all emotion. 
 
 Again the flutter in his breast, but this time the 
 Ushebti knew that it was his heart, warm and hu- 
 man. 
 
 "Does it pain you?" he cried, advancing still 
 nearer to where she stood. "What can I do to 
 make your foot better so that you can dance again ? ' ' 
 
 "Did you like it?" she asked in a low, gentle 
 voice. 
 
 "It was the most perfect thing I have ever seen." 
 
 "Ah! It was nothing to what I once did. I 
 must be a little lame, for I find I cannot balance 
 myself on my right foot. Alas! if the excavators 
 13 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 had only used more care! They have made awful 
 havoc with some of our most beautiful women — 
 Aphrodite suffered more than I — such a great big 
 creature, you would think it impossible, but they 
 broke off her toes and both her arms, and lost her 
 golden mirror, just as they did mine." 
 
 "Did she, too, have a mirror?" inquired the 
 Egyptian. 
 
 "Yes, she was always looking in it, because Paris 
 made her believe she was the fairest woman in the 
 world. I never could see it. She was too heavy 
 and stolid looking. Imagine her trying to dance ! " 
 and Althea burst into a peal of laughter. 
 
 "Had you been buried in a tomb, as I was, you 
 would all have been better preserved," said the 
 Egyptian, sententiously. 
 
 "Preserved? Then you don't think me well pre- 
 served?" cried Althea in a high, plaintive voice. 
 "If you knew the vicissitudes of being dug up by 
 ignorant barbarians you would think me about 
 perfect." 
 
 "I do think you perfect, only badly advised in 
 the way you lived and were educated." 
 
 "How were you educated, that you feel yourself 
 to be so superior?" 
 
 ' ' Alas ! ' ' replied Ushebti, ' ' I was of humble birth, 
 but, while I rank below you in station, my expe- 
 14 
 
THE USEEBTVS LOVE STORY 
 
 rience has made me more capable of conducting my 
 life wisely. I was a servant, but to the great 
 Mineptah. When he died, they placed me beside 
 him in the royal tomb, so that I might serve him 
 should he waken and need me in the Nether-world. 
 But he never did; his slumber was unbroken in 
 spite of all that priests say to the contrary, until 
 the tomb was opened a few years ago — barely a cen- 
 tury — and we were both brought to the light. My 
 master went to the British Museum. He was a 
 noble-looking mummy and the commanding expres- 
 sion of his painted face could still control an army 
 of Ushebtis. He was so well preserved that I should 
 judge his future would be endless. As for me, I 
 have been obscurely placed until I came here to be 
 in the famous collection of Monsieur Aristide." 
 
 ' ' Are you happy ? Do you like this place ? ' ' asked 
 Althea. 
 
 Ushebti hesitated a moment and then he said: 
 "Yes, I shall be happy if I can be in the same case 
 with you." His companion shot a radiant smile 
 into the depths of his dark, melancholy eyes. It 
 was the first sunbeam that had warmed him for 
 years unnumbered and, advancing, Althea laid her 
 hand gently on his muffled arm. Much to her sur- 
 prise he caught it in both his hands and held it 
 tenderly. 
 
 15 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 "Kiss it," she murmured. 
 
 "Tell me what it is to kiss. Show me a kiss and 
 I will kiss you until you are satisfied" 
 
 ' ' Shall I give you one, just to let you know about 
 them?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 ' ' Where shall I kiss you ? " 
 
 "Where did they kiss in Greece?" 
 
 "On the mouth, as a general thing." 
 
 "Then on my mouth, but quickly, for I want it 
 more than I wanted the favor of the King, my 
 Master." 
 
 Approaching her perfect lips to the lips of the 
 Ushebti, she brushed them lightly. If to the wait- 
 ing flower the touch of the bee is exquisite, so was 
 this first shy kiss to the stranger Egyptian. His 
 lips, once taught, were not slow to practise the cus- 
 toms of Greece, and, unfolding more completely his 
 prim arms, he clasped the beautiful Nymph to his 
 breast. He was a changed Ushebti! Althea was 
 more deliciously won by these advances than she 
 had ever been by the mad pursuit of fauns and 
 satyrs. She loved his serious ways and she instinc- 
 tively felt his superior quality of faithfulness. 
 
 "We shall be together always," he whispered, 
 "and you shall teach me the sweet customs of your 
 country." 
 
 16 
 
THE USHEBTI'S LOVE STORY 
 
 "Alas! They will not separate us, will they?" 
 she replied in sudden fright, "we are so congenial. 
 Even the strange scene which we view from the 
 window, the terrible crouching lions and the char- 
 iot racing, all seems possible to me now that I know 
 you, and we shall live in the sunny memories of 
 my Grecian valley." 
 
 Suddenly the door of the study opened, and Mon- 
 sieur Aristide and the Greek curator of the British 
 Museum entered and approached the table, where 
 light still gleamed from the Square. 
 
 "Here are the newcomers I told you of," said 
 Monsieur Aristide. "Take the Ushebti to the win- 
 dow quickly, there may still remain light to see his 
 so marvelous iridescence. It is an example unique 
 in my experience." 
 
 The curator examined the solemn little figure 
 with much attention and remarked on his beauty ; 
 he also read aloud the text that decorated the front 
 of his robe: "Oh, this Ushebti of the Osiris, if Mi- 
 neptah be drafted to all the tasks which are wont 
 to be done there in the Nether-world, as a king to 
 his duties, to build palaces and enrich the land, 
 thou shalt say, 'Behold me!' Where is the other 
 piece you told me about, Monsieur? This Ushebti 
 is most curious, but you know that I am, above all, 
 a lover of Greek antiquities." 
 17 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 "She is here," replied the Frenchman, "and I 
 have fallen in love with her. Have you ever set 
 your eyes on a form more gracious? Examine her 
 rose-colored drapery and the exquisite modeling of 
 that face. She does not sit, my Althea, that is too 
 banal. A hundred such little figures are seen re- 
 posing themselves, with their draperies drawn close 
 about them. My beautiful one is coquettish, she 
 stands ready to dance — to love!" 
 
 The curator pored over her like a miser over a 
 heap of gold, and in his enthusiasm he would have 
 seized her and carried her off to be queen of his 
 collection. 
 
 "Let me have her for the Museum," he pleaded, 
 smiling as he looked at the ardent face of the 
 Frenchman beside him. "Such an example has no 
 business in private hands. Be public spirited ! ' ' 
 
 "Now, de Dieu!" cried out Monsieur Aristide. 
 ' ' She is too perfect for my collection, is she ? "Well, 
 and so she is for yours. Allez vous s'en, avare! 
 "When I shall die, perhaps she then come into your 
 hands, but now I would sooner make surrender my 
 most curious example of ancient glass than this 
 newcomer from the Groves of Thrace." So saying 
 he lifted her gently, smiling with a fervent joy in 
 his possession. "Ma jolie femme!" he murmured, 
 and placed her in a cabinet devoted to Grecian 
 18 
 
THE USHEBTI'S LOVE STORY 
 
 bronzes and figurines. "She shall be their god- 
 dess," he continued, "and they will be amoureux 
 before the night is passed. As for the Ushebti, it 
 must not be that he have commerce with the Greeks, 
 he must go in the collection egyptierme, where even 
 in this light, his iridescence will make him a distin- 
 guished member." 
 
 • *###» 
 
 For the two lovers the night wore out in an agony 
 of separation. Locked behind their glass doors, 
 like despairing prisoners, they could only weep and 
 lament, waiting the dawn when they might look 
 upon each other from afar. The Ushebti 's unemo- 
 tional nature had been strongly roused and he suf- 
 fered the pangs of one awakened late to the ardors 
 of love. Althea, wrapping her veil about her head, 
 longed for death, nay, implored the Greeks about 
 her to suffer her to share the fate of Iphigenia. She 
 supplicated the little statue of Agememnon to put 
 her to death, but he would not; indeed they were 
 enchanted with the newcomer and made love to 
 her, promising her consolation for all the low-born 
 Ushebtis in the tombs of Egypt. But she was deaf 
 to their entreaties. She hated them. At last, when 
 the Grecians slept upon their pedestals, and all was 
 still, she came to an heroic determination, and, feel- 
 ing that a way out of her sufferings was assured, 
 19 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 she only awaited an opportunity to carry hsr plan 
 into effect. 
 
 The next morning Monsieur Aristide came early 
 to his study and went immediately to the cabinet, 
 where were displayed his Greek antiquities. He 
 looked long and exultingly at the form of the Bac- 
 chante and then prepared to open the case that he 
 might take her out and examine her in the sunlight 
 that sifted into the room like a mist of gold. He 
 turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the 
 door. The heart of Althea beat violently and she 
 shuddered in all her delicate frame. The moment 
 was the one she had longed for all night, but the 
 fear of her pleasure-loving nature fought with her 
 despair. An instant she struggled, then, with a 
 faint cry, she looked toward the Egyptian, raised 
 her arms and threw herself from the cabinet. 
 
 She fell at the feet of the horrified collector, 
 where she lay shattered in a thousand fragments. 
 
 20 
 
THE ROSE OF JERICHO 
 
THE ROSE OF JERICHO 
 
 T T was springtime in Syria. The skies were pro- 
 ■*■ f oundly blue ; the sands of the desert blossomed 
 like the rose, and nightingales sang in the moon- 
 light songs of love and lamentation. 
 
 One day, in the midst of the Desert, a little 
 Flower raised her head and opened her petals to 
 the sun. No companions grew beside her ; no rock 
 nor palm stood near, where she might find shelter. 
 Only the passing clouds cast their shadows on the 
 sands where bloomed the Rose of Jericho. 
 
 "While spring lasted, all was well: the Flower 
 looked up to the skies without a care. When the 
 burning sun declined in the West, the dew refreshed 
 her, and night deepened over the pathless Desert. 
 Then the Rose of Jericho, with petals closed, 
 dreamed of fragrance. 
 
 But, alas ! the spring grew to summer — the season 
 of suffering and death in the Desert, and the Flower 
 felt that the end of her life was near. One night 
 23 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 she had fainted. Her slender form was bowed to 
 the burning sand, and she lay as though dead. 
 Suddenly, in the great solitude, a voice aroused 
 her — a ravishing voice, which sang a few notes and 
 then was still. The sound rose and fell like the 
 waters of a fountain, now gushing forth, now si- 
 lent. Raising her head and looking about her on 
 the sand, the Rose beheld a brown bird standing 
 near, whose bright topaz eyes watched her atten- 
 tively. 
 
 "Poor little Flower!" cried he, "how I pity you! 
 How I wish I might save you from the cruel heat 
 and carry you far away to the woodland paradise 
 I know." 
 
 So faint was her reply that the Bird had to bend 
 his little head quite close to hear. "You cannot 
 wish it more than I. Tomorrow I shall be dead, for 
 this is the first night the dew has not fallen on the 
 Desert. I suffer so with thirst that I long for death. 
 See, how dry the sand is ! and even the moon seems 
 to radiate heat." 
 
 ' ' Courage ! ' ' sang the nightingale. ' ' At this mo- 
 ment a faint breeze arises and stirs your leaves. See 
 how they sway and how the sands rise and spin like 
 little whirling tops. Attend to my words, lovely 
 Flower, for I must fly this very night to the forest 
 at the foot of Jebel Misma, whose snowy head rises 
 24 
 
TEE ROSE OF JERICHO 
 
 above the Desert. I have lingered too long behind 
 my companions, for we are birds of passage and, 
 when life becomes insupportable in the Desert, we 
 migrate. But the burning moon of Syria has in- 
 toxicated me. Unable to tear myself away, I have 
 sung to her through the brief nights with all the 
 passion, all the rapture that only a great singer 
 knows. My name is Philomel, and the world listens 
 while I sing. But I am only mortal, after all, and 
 I must now escape for life from the burning heat. 
 
 "Alas!" sighed the Kose of Jericho, "that I had 
 wings and the power to detach myself from the 
 sands! Then would I follow you to Mount Jebel 
 Misma and dwell forever in the shadow of the for- 
 est!" 
 
 "Poor Prisoner!" cried the Nightingale, "I long 
 to help you ! And, even though you have no wings 
 like mine, the Wind has four — one wing to the East, 
 another to the West and a wing for the North and 
 South. This night the wind flies to the North — 
 pray to it to carry you whither I am going!" 
 
 "You forget, dear Philomel, that I am bound, my 
 roots hold me forever a prisoner." 
 
 At these words, as though transported by sorrow, 
 
 the Nightingale burst into a passionate lament that 
 
 filled his tiny throat with melody, and floated far 
 
 over the Desert. Then, suddenly, he ceased, as 
 
 25 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 though startled by some invisible presence, and, ruf- 
 fling his sober feathers, came close to the Flower. 
 Taking the lower part of her stem firmly in his 
 beak, he pulled her gently but resolutely from her 
 bed of torment. Uttering a cry of anguish as she 
 felt her roots torn from the sand, the poor Bose lay 
 panting and exhausted. At first the Nightingale 
 feared for her life and that his daring experiment 
 might prove fatal ; but gradually hope revived the 
 little sufferer and, with the help of her rescue?, she 
 rolled herself, roots, stem and flower, into a ball, 
 light and^ ready to fly with the first wind that 
 stirred. Soon a breeze, stronger than any they had 
 yet felt, lifted the Kose of Jericho from the face 
 of the Desert, and carried her lightly and rapidly 
 on her way. The Nightingale followed in a trans- 
 port of joy and excitement, beating his wings close 
 to the earth to animate her courage and accompany- 
 ing each stage of her miraculous journey. Some- 
 times they traveled rapidly, sometimes by short 
 flights, rising from the ground for an instant, only 
 to relight and await the next puff of wind. Al- 
 ways sustained by the Nightingale, and charmed 
 to forgetfulness by the voice of love, the passage 
 of the sands was at last accomplished and they 
 reached Jebel Misma — the oasis of their dreams. 
 Upon a bed of moss, moist and thickly set with 
 26 
 
THE ROSE OF JERICHO 
 
 a miniature forest of feathery green trees, the 
 Flower at last alighted. The journey had cost her 
 one delicate petal which she had gladly given to the 
 North "Wind for her fare, and he had flown away 
 with it, rejoicing in its sweetness. Above the shady 
 bank where she lay, an oak tree spread its mighty 
 arms to shelter the retreat of the wanderer. Little 
 by little, her dry roots unfurled, drank the refresh- 
 ing dew of the forest and sent feelers down the 
 rich soil. Her leaves became green once more, and 
 she lifted her face to the Nightingale, who fluttered 
 happily ' among the branches overhead. In the 
 heart of the Rose of Jericho love 1 had become an 
 absorbing emotion, which she exhaled in a perfume 
 that made all the forest fragrant. Soon she forgot 
 her past misfortunes and each night the voice of 
 her beloved consoled her, and made the wood a para- 
 dise. 
 
 He never left her to rejoin his companions, nor 
 ceased to watch over her tenderly, and he built his 
 nest above the spot where the Flower grew. But 
 for the Moon he still cherished the madness of an 
 unrequited passion, and each night, as she sailed 
 above the forest, his transport began. "When her 
 serene face looked full upon him, joy thrilled his 
 heart and when, on other nights, she turned her 
 profile to cast an oblique glance over the treetops, 
 27 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 his song became one of lament until she was lost 
 among the stars. But, even then, the Nightingale 
 sang to the heaven where the Moon had been, and 
 always she heard his voice and returned. Then, 
 looking up to her radiant face, he filled the Solitude 
 with the torrent of his song. 
 
 And the Rose of Jericho was glad, for she thought 
 it was to her he sang. 
 
 28 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 r_I OW the sun poured its rays on the garden 
 wall! — the burning sun of Provence — stir- 
 ring to life and animation the tiny inhabitants 
 who dwelt in the fissures of the rocks, and at the 
 roots of the vines that covered the wall. Among 
 this diminutive society the Snail alone was un- 
 happy; he hated the stuffiness of his little shell, 
 and he complained unceasingly of its confinement. 
 "What can I do," he moaned, "to rid myself 
 of this wearisome prison, in which I have been 
 bound all my life ; how escape, to walk and run as 
 others do, without my burden? The infamous 
 Lizard was right when he said I was only a house- 
 mover. To tear myself from my shell would de- 
 mand both courage and scorn of public opinion; 
 for, in escaping, I would be quite bare, without a 
 single tuft of hair to keep me in countenance. Of 
 course my beautiful thorns, which make me so dis- 
 tinguished, would remain; but I lack fur, cloth- 
 31 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 ing, something to cover my nakedness, and here 
 lies my difficulty. To the ignorant herd a snail 
 without his shell is unusual, an acquired taste, — 
 like the slug. Some fool would be sure to say that 
 Nature was wise to cover me with a pagoda. How- 
 ever, the world is full of poor devils who would 
 give their skins for such a house as mine, and my 
 purpose is to exchange it for a handsome coat 
 of some sort. It will be unnecessary to set forth 
 all the dangers and drawbacks that beset my dwell- 
 ing — my constant fear that it may be cracked, that 
 some villainous insect will pierce the walls while I 
 sleep, or some cowardly bird cast me brutally on 
 the rocks that he may eat me. I have enjoyed 
 the honors of a householder long enough; the 
 taxes are excessive, the responsibilities tiresome 
 and there is actually no room in my single cham- 
 ber to accommodate a wife, much less bring up 
 a family. In walking I am burdened by my house, 
 and in dragging it after me I must perforce move 
 slowly. 
 
 "Not long ago I heard the story of some fool 
 calling himself a snail, who, mounting on a turtle's 
 back, cried, 'Look how the grass whistles by!' 
 It is infamous that such a story should get about, 
 and, when I have disposed of this house of mine, I 
 mean to prove that a Snail can move faster than a 
 32 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 turtle — an unworthy creature, at best. This very 
 day I have determined to part with my house to 
 anyone who will give me, in exchange, the means 
 to clothe myself. For I am naked, alas, quite 
 naked!" 
 
 Thus Father Snail soliloquized at his door as 
 he spied on all who passed by on the garden wall. 
 Before long he beheld approaching him Mistress 
 Slug, whom he had always hated because she re- 
 sembled him too closely. 
 
 "Good day," cried he, with mocking respect, 
 "and how goes the world with you, fair Slug? 
 You look a trifle damp ; doubtless you have bathed 
 in the dew, for you leave a moist wake on the 
 stones." 
 
 "Alas! Father Snail, I am bathed in sweat, for 
 it is dreadfully warm, and I have been walking 
 fast to be in time for Mrs.' Beetle's wash." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed the wicked Snail, "if you 
 should fall into the wash tub by mistake you need 
 not fear a wetting, being of an habitually slimy 
 habit," and he burst out laughing. 
 
 "If I were rich," cried the poor Slug, turning 
 to look her reproach, "I too would keep my house; 
 instead of doing day's work I would be respected 
 and at ease, like you." 
 
 "Like me, respected like me?" exclaimed the 
 33 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 highly sensitive Snail. "You certainly have 
 strange ideas for one in your walk of life. Fie! 
 Fie ! you aspire to honors that only the few enjoy. 
 But, miserable and bedraggled as you are, you 
 are free, with no unsalable property on your 
 hands." 
 
 "Free!" cried Mistress Slug. "I would ex- 
 change my soul for such property as yours, where 
 I might live in safety." 
 
 "Your soul," shouted Father Snail, rudely. 
 "Women have no souls. What could you offer in 
 exchange for my possessions? Crawl off there!" 
 
 The poor Slug dared not reply ; the meanest and 
 most helpless of the wall's inhabitants, she con- 
 tinued her laborious course to the tubs of Mrs. 
 Beetle. 
 
 -The Snail snickered wickedly in his shell, but, 
 being an egoist, he soon forgot the Slug in his one 
 vital interest, and watched for the next passerby. 
 After a considerable time, a large spider loomed 
 in sight — an accomplished weaver and spinner, 
 whom Father Snail had long known and secretly 
 scorned. Now, thinking she might prove useful 
 to him, he addressed her with his horns respect- 
 fully lowered. 
 
 "You are welcome, Neighbor. Won't you rest 
 a while with me and tell me the news? You have 
 34 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 probably heard that my house is for sale; I have 
 just put it in the market and am awaiting a pur- 
 chaser. Would you care for it yourself?" 
 
 The spider stopped abruptly, after the man- 
 ner of her kind, and fixed her eye suspiciously on 
 the Snail. 
 
 "What did you say?" she replied. "I am so 
 distrait this morning I have no heart for scandal. 
 I must complete an order for a web which I prom- 
 ised today, and I have barely time enough." 
 
 "One moment, I pray you," urged the wily 
 Snail, "for it is quite possible I can give you a 
 more important order than the one you have in 
 hand." 
 
 The eyes of the spider bulged from her head, 
 and she became suddenly quiet and attentive. 
 
 "Have you understood that I am selling my old 
 house, if I can make good terms with a purchaser?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understood, but I thought you a 
 fool to entertain such an idea." 
 
 "A fool?" cried Father Snail, offended as al- 
 ways by the world's rude opinion. "In what way, 
 may I ask?" 
 
 "In leaving your shell you will be acting against 
 Nature; your flesh will be torn and you will die 
 of wounds. Do keep to sense, Neighbor!" 
 
 ' ' Sense ! It is you who are foolish. At best I am 
 35 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 but lightly bound to the walls of my shell and, 
 while to gain my liberty will be painful, that is not 
 the question. All / fear is to present myself naked 
 in the eyes of the world." 
 
 "All the clothing this fellow needs is a straight- 
 jacket," muttered the Spider, and then aloud, 
 "You have the shell you were born in, Master 
 Snail. "What maggot has got into your head? I am 
 content with the way I was born. Do you think 
 yourself better than I, a rich and successful spin- 
 ner, with web-makers in my employ? Snails have 
 been naked since the world began. You think 
 too much of yourself, neighbor," and she stopped 
 suddenly to gobble an absent-minded fly, who had 
 ventured too near. 
 
 Controlling his anger, lest it should disagree 
 with his own interests, the Snail replied, cajolingly. 
 
 "You will weave me a pretty garment, I know, 
 in spite of your hard words, and in exchange you 
 shall have my shell. Clothed by your clever 
 hands I shall make a very handsome appearance." 
 
 "I doubt it," replied the Spider with an impar- 
 tial regard for truth. "Your shell would be worth 
 nothing to me, and I weave only gossamer fabrics. 
 Everyone would see through my web that your 
 face was insignificant, and that you were only a 
 snail after all was said and done." 
 36 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 This was too much. Father Snail trembled with 
 passion and his horns rose savagely. "Woman!" 
 he shouted, "you are a barbarian. Your own 
 appearance is repulsive, and your hairy legs 
 disgust me. Away with you! Out of my 
 sight!" 
 
 At this injurious attack the Spider became 
 suddenly animated and, whirling round and round, 
 she raised her powerful mandibles, and advanced 
 menacingly. 
 
 The Snail, as prudent as he was vain, hurried 
 into his despised shell, just in time to save him- 
 self in its dim labyrinth, while the spider was 
 forced to continue her way to the loom without 
 gratifying her vengeance. 
 
 In no sense cast down by his first failure, Father 
 Snail again posted himself at his doorway, from 
 which he could cast his eye along the distant wall, 
 while awaiting a more promising client. Soon he 
 perceived the approach of a strange individual, 
 who resembled no one he had ever seen, and who 
 moved by fitful darts and bounds. 
 
 "By my horns!" exclaimed the Snail, "here 
 is a queer customer. With patience I may see 
 the Devil himself," and, crossing his threshold to 
 attract the newcomer, he greeted him court- 
 eously: 
 
 37 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 "Good morning to you, Sir, and how do you find 
 yourself this pleasant weather?" 
 
 "But poorly, I thank you. I am a journalier, 
 as we say in the south — subject to change. In 
 fact the weather makes me change." 
 
 "Alas! A touch of neuralgia, I, too, suffer from 
 it in my damp shell," replied the Snail, dissem- 
 bling a sympathy he did not feel. For he was 
 always well and had no pity for pain in any form. 
 
 "But what is your name, my good sir, if I may 
 venture to ask?" 
 
 "I am called Chameleon," replied the stranger. 
 
 "You come from a far country?" 
 
 "Yes, from the Pyrenees. I have long wanted 
 to see the world and to instruct my people scat- 
 tered through Provenge." 
 
 "You are a Reformer, then; Ulysses wandering 
 in search of adventure," said the ironical Snail. 
 "In that case you may perhaps aid me in a project 
 not so quixotic as your own, but far bolder, and 
 one which absorbs my entire thought." 
 
 "My duties concern a School of Philosophy, of 
 which I am the founder," was the lofty reply. 
 "In it are taught reflective science and adapta- 
 bility. I pretend to no other arts." 
 
 Even as he spoke, a ray of sunlight falling upon 
 the Chameleon changed his gray skin to a tawny 
 38 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 yellow. At this sudden transformation the timid 
 Snail backed hurriedly into his shell, and his horns 
 trembled with fear. 
 
 "Who are you, strange adventurer, that you 
 can make yourself gray or yellow? Are you pos- 
 sessed by a devil?" 
 
 "I am possessed by contempt for your ignor- 
 ance," rejoined the indignant philosopher. "A 
 devil indeed! My learning is not for such con- 
 temptible projects as yours." 
 
 Scarcely had these words passed his lips when 
 a new miracle occurred. The stranger lost his 
 tawny hue and became gradually red before the 
 gaze of the panic-stricken Snail, who, bowing his 
 proud horns, prayed for mercy. 
 
 "Behold me, ignorant and small," he whined, 
 "a poor bourgeois Snail! Pity a prisoner and 
 help me escape from my shell. Philosophers are 
 powerful and here we have none : help me to clothe 
 myself, for I am naked. Already I have noticed 
 that the superb and changeable tunic you wear fits 
 you but loosely, and that there is more than 
 enough in its ample folds for your own needs. 
 What would I not give for the smallest remnant, 
 from which a waistcoat or a muffler might be 
 shaped? For this gift I would yield you my beau- 
 tiful house and all my possessions." 
 39 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 The sanguine complexion of the Chameleon 
 faded at these supplicating words, and he re 
 gretted his sudden anger. 
 
 "Fear nothing, Snail, for you have my pardon. 
 Were it possible I would grant your prayer. But 
 you ask too great a boon. All my power and repu- 
 tation reside in my miraculous skin, which I must 
 keep inviolate. But I can give you instruction in 
 my philosophy which will be a greater boon than 
 the one you have asked, and which is nothing more 
 than the art of perfectly reflecting one's surround- 
 ings. Learn to be at one with them and absorbed 
 by them. All our struggles to set them at naught 
 are folly. Perfect adaptability is what we require 
 if we would know happiness. Take this home, oh 
 Snail ! Seek not to change your identity, but be- 
 come ever more snailish. Struggle no more with 
 the environment of your shell, but realize its pos- 
 sibilities. ' ' 
 
 All great philosophers reflect, in their teaching, 
 light from stars whose rays have not yet reached 
 us ; thus was Father Snail in nowise moved or en- 
 lightened by doctrines so remote from his own 
 thought-plane. Seeing this, the Chameleon collect- 
 ed his pearls, and continued the conversation with 
 more regard to the understanding of his disciple. 
 
 "Here is a Silk Worm approaching, ask him to 
 40 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 make you a doublet; he can do so without loss to 
 himself." And, resuming his peripatetic mission, 
 the philosopher was soon far down the wall. 
 
 But alas! the Worm would have nothing to do 
 with it. His time was engaged by a silk merchant of 
 Lyons, and he hurried away in search of a cer- 
 tain mulberry tree where he had been working for 
 a number of weeks. 
 
 In the midst of failure the unhappy Snail began 
 to despair of advancing his project, when the 
 Caterpillar, for whom he had been watching and 
 waiting all the morning, arrived. She lived in a 
 cranny at the foot of the wall, and had been hours 
 making her laborious way to the Snail's house. 
 Hearing rumors of the sale, she had dropped every- 
 thing to come and see how matters stood, and to 
 learn the price. Always envious of Father Snail's 
 importance as a house-holder, she had been on the 
 lookout for just such a property, and it was the 
 dream of her somewhat limited existence to find a 
 roof to protect herself and her valuable furs. Like 
 the Snail, Miss Caterpillar was discontented. She 
 wanted a home for her old age, when her body 
 would be too infirm to crawl, and when the lustre 
 and softness of her coat would be gone. After 
 long economy she was prepared to pay a reason- 
 able price for the house in question, but, when the 
 41 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 Snail proposed to her the exchange he contem- 
 plated, her heart failed. What would real estate 
 mean to her without her cinnamon furs? Com- 
 prehending her dilemma with much astuteness, 
 Father Snail launched forth upon an argument 
 more creditable to his eloquence than to his verac- 
 ity, in which he had the audacity to assure his 
 client that, after parting with her beautiful coat, 
 she would speedily grow another, longer and hand- 
 somer than the one she was about to lose. His 
 persuasive powers were such that, deceived by spe- 
 cious arguments, the poor creature was seduced. 
 
 "I have heard of no such second growth," she 
 replied, after a period of agonizing indecision, "but 
 my circle of acquaintances has been small, and you 
 doubtless have more science in such matters than 
 I. In waiting the growth of my new pelt, I shall 
 at least have a roof to cover me and, when it has 
 grown, I shall still have my savings and the house, 
 where I can arch my back in private, unobserved 
 by my enemies." 
 
 ' ' Bravo ! ' ' cried Father Snail. ' ' Tou agree, then, 
 to yield your striped coat for my shell, which, by 
 the way, is larger and handsomer than any on the 
 wall? I understand, as no one of less intelligence 
 could, your desire for portable property, and it is 
 worthy of your ambition and your charming self, 
 42 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 my Neighbor. As for me, I am a vagabond. I want 
 to see the world. I am irresponsible and frivolous. 
 Clothes have become my passion, and I would be 
 well dressed were the skies to fall." 
 
 Thus their Fate decided the future, smiling 
 behind her tragic mask at follies and ambitions 
 so like the drama enacted by mortals. The infatu- 
 ated Snail suffered an agony of pain when, with 
 the aid of some neighbors, he was torn from his 
 shell, and his sharp cries mingled with the groans 
 of the Caterpillar deprived at the same time of 
 her furs. Alas for the poor misguided creature! 
 she did not long enjoy her new estate. Scarcely 
 had she dragged herself across the threshold of the 
 coveted house when Death welcomed the new 
 tenant. 
 
 Father Snail, of a more rugged constitution, 
 accomplished his life-long desire, and had a mag- 
 nificent coat made of the fur of his victim, which 
 he wore for the few remaining days of his life. 
 But he found little real satisfaction in it ; — greater 
 risks and dangers beset him outside his shell, and 
 his gait continued laborious. Strange to relate, he 
 cherished a curious affection for his old dwelling, 
 to which he returned that he might occupy it at 
 will. In his brief absence, ants had taken posses- 
 sion of the place, and a tiny spider had spun a cur- 
 43 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 tain across the door. These he expelled with vio- 
 lence, and engaged the poor Slug to clean house, 
 and put all in order against his return. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when Father Snail 
 approached his old home. Joy filled his heart on 
 seeing its white walls rise before him, surrounded 
 by the familiar scenes he loved, the mossy cushions 
 on the stones where he had so often rested, the 
 ravines in the rocks where the rain left miniature 
 lakes. How beautiful it all seemed after his ab- 
 sence, and how restful to creep beneath the shelter- 
 ing walls of home ! 
 
 Mistress Slug, her task accomplished, was just 
 leaving the house when the owner, magnificent in 
 tawny furs, approached the door. Pompously ex- 
 tending his hand to take the key from her, Father 
 Snail beheld, to his horror, the Spider whom he 
 had offended the day of the sale, and who now 
 appeared in his pathway as though watching for 
 him from the rocks. At the first glimpse of the en- 
 raged female, his heart contracted with fear. 
 Straight in the path to his house she had posted 
 herself, and he could not hope to escape, as before, 
 in the labyrinth of his shell. 
 
 ' ' Ha ! ha ! " laughed the implacable Spider. ' ' Do 
 my hairy legs disgust you still; am I still a bar- 
 barian, still hideous, Father Snail? But be con- 
 44 
 
THE HOUSE OF FATHER SNAIL 
 
 soled, I have thought better of my refusal to make 
 you a garment. It is now waiting to be tried on, 
 a shroud, thick enough to hide your snaily soul 
 forever. How dared you destroy my little daugh- 
 ter's web?" she continued with sudden ferocity, 
 "her very first, spun today across your abandoned 
 doorway. Escape now, if you can!" With these 
 appalling words she approached rapidly, brandish- 
 ing her hairy arms. 
 
 Uttering a cry of anguish the Snail sought 
 escape by crawling toward a cavern in the rocks 
 which he knew well, and which, once reached, would 
 afford him safety. But his movements, always 
 laborious, were now paralyzed by fear and, in an 
 instant, the Spider had Beized and killed him in a 
 ferocious embrace. 
 
 Mistress Slug alone profited by the tragedy. 
 During the encounter she had slipped behind the 
 house, where she watched without sharing the 
 emotions of the combatants. Her unimaginative 
 soul could rise to no vicarious suffering. Misery 
 was the monopoly of the unfortunate, to share 
 it was to act against nature. That very evening 
 she took possession of the long-coveted dwelling 
 where, troubled by no grim associations, she lived 
 happy and respected all the days of her life. 
 45 
 
THE WEATHER COCK 
 
THE WEATHER COCK 
 
 /^NCE, in the farm-yard of an old French 
 ^"^ memoir, there lived a White Hen. Unlike her 
 plebeian associates, she was a thoroughbred, ambi- 
 tions and romantic. She mingled but little in the 
 social life of her companions — holding their man- 
 ners and their morals in disdain. Her beautiful 
 svelte lines were the envy of the stout and bustling 
 females of the flock, who were themselves devoid of 
 grace or coquetry. But the pretty hen was 
 French, and she understood the art and finesse of 
 life as only a French hen can, and in Provenge she 
 was called "une fine mouche." 
 
 The cocks, however, appreciated her lines to an 
 embarrassing degree, and much of their time was 
 spent in making love to her and crowing of their 
 prowess in a manner altogether gallant and con- 
 vincing. They strutted before the White Hen with 
 fierce heads held high, their blood-red combs de- 
 faced in tourneys held in her honor. They raised 
 49 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 their rfeet meticulously to show the spurs which, 
 like the warriors' swords of old, they wore, always 
 ready to do battle. 
 
 But the coquettish "White Hen would have none 
 of them, for she nourished a passion far above the 
 bourgeois society of the farm-yard. She was in love 
 with a golden warrior — the magnificent Weather 
 Cock who stood on the highest gable of the hen- 
 house, almost touching the blue sky. He glittered 
 in the sunlight as he turned and pirouetted, con- 
 descending to the lightest breeze — that breeze so 
 caressing, yet strong, which sailed the great clouds 
 overhead as easily as it turned the golden cock. 
 How enraptured she was to behold him on his 
 arrow which, like that of Eros, had pierced her 
 heart. Often she forgot to eat the savory grain 
 which the Farmer scattered among her companions, 
 and when night fell and the hens had retired, she 
 became uneasy lest, in the gathering shadows, she 
 could no longer behold her idol. 
 
 A few of the older hens had divined her secret 
 and mocked at her insane passion. They declared 
 that the Weather Cock was in love with the Breeze, 
 who alone inspired him with life and whom he 
 slavishly obeyed. To be nearer each breath of his 
 dear mistress was the reason he lived so far above 
 the world of common fowls, else why did he not fly 
 50 
 
THE WEATHER COCK 
 
 down and be one of them? It was rumored that, 
 when the great clock over the coach-house struck 
 midnight, Chanteclair left his eminence for a brief 
 moment to eat and drink in the yard below. But 
 as often as the White Hen watched for him from 
 her lonely roost, he was never seen to descend. 
 
 To all the talk and gossip of the poultry-house 
 the pretty Hen listened in silence, but she was far 
 from believing what she heard. Her opinion was 
 that the Weather Cock turned, not because the wan- 
 ton Breeze constrained him, through the weakness 
 of his love, but because he was master of all four 
 Winds of heaven, and drove them as he willed. 
 Sometimes he summoned the North Wind, whose 
 icy blast made the White Hen long for a mate to 
 roost beside her. Sometimes he bade the South 
 Wind bring up the Spring, when the silver chick- 
 weed blossomed in the meadows where she loved to 
 wander. In fact, the more she looked up to the 
 gold of her lover's plumage, to his gallant port, 
 the more she believed, in her feminine heart, that 
 he loved her. He had singled her out from the 
 common flock below and only waited an oppor- 
 tunity to fly down and claim her for his mate. 
 
 Thus the White Hen hoped and suffered through 
 the long summer days. Always more infatuated, 
 always more lonely, she shunned the quarrelsome 
 
 51 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 inmates of the farm-yard to commune with her 
 lover. While her companions slept together on 
 their stuffy perch, she would slip from the common 
 dormitory to wander in the yard like a little white 
 ghost. At midnight the silence and loneliness were 
 complete, broken only by an occasional drowsy 
 cluck, or smothered squawk from the crowded sleep- 
 ers who dreamed uneasily. 
 
 Then, trembling but courageous, the White Hen 
 lifted her voice in the sweet patois of Provence. 
 "Are you there, Chanteclair? Do you long for me 
 as I for you ? Listen to me, I pray, and reply ; for 
 none may hear, none may see us in the darkness. 
 Even I can scarce distinguish your golden breast 
 in the star-light. I love you, and I am yours. 
 What are the vulgar cocks, who strut before me in 
 the chaff of the barn-yard, compared with you? 
 You glitter in the sun's rays, too proud, too kingly 
 to heed the world beneath your throne. Think not 
 that I would have you leave your state for the com- 
 mon world below. Only at night be my guest, for 
 at night I am sad. Fly down and be mine, great 
 Chanteclair!" 
 
 Some time after this, a violent storm arose and 
 all the four Winds blew together. The Weather 
 Cock, no longer able to control his steeds, whirled 
 52 
 
THE WEATHER COCK 
 
 distractedly from, one to the other and, striving to 
 curb their flight, was hurled at last to the ground. 
 He fell at the feet of the White Hen, who, in a 
 transport of joy, believed that the desire of her 
 heart had been realized and, rushing to his pros- 
 trate form, covered the adored Cock with her wings. 
 But alas ! after the first embrace, she awoke to the 
 tragic reality. Her ideal was hard and cold ; he had 
 no heart, no life, no love to give her and, in her 
 despair, she looked up to the empty sky from which 
 he had fallen forever. 
 
 53 
 
THE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
THE TAPISSIBR OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 T N the North Transept of the Cathedral of Notre 
 ■*- Dame, there is a painted window which has 
 aroused the curiosity of many a traveler to the 
 ancient city of which I write. The subject por- 
 trayed is that of a man, quaintly attired in a 
 tunic of violet and gold, at work before a. loom 
 where he appears to be weaving a fabric which 
 gleams with the jewel-like quality of the medieval 
 glass. Through this loom, light streams in upon 
 the narrow chamber where the weaver sits and his 
 face is lifted to the tapestry with a look of rapture. 
 Beneath, in Gothic text, can be deciphered the 
 words: "To the memory of Christopher Hals, 
 Anno Domini 1460." 
 
 And this is the legend of his life, still commemo- 
 rated in the dim Cathedral of many aisles. 
 
 Hundreds of years ago, in a city by the Schelde, 
 there was a famous Guild of Tapestry Workers, 
 called, from its founder, the Guild of Hendrik Van 
 57 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 Leyden. It was carried on under the patronage of 
 Philip of Burgundy and had become noted through- 
 out the Low Countries, where it was no uncommon 
 thing for the banquet halls of kings to be hung 
 with an arras from the looms of Van Leyden. Its 
 secrets were inviolable and none knew by what 
 process the dyes were made or how the threads re- 
 tained their vivid hues, life-like as the pigments of 
 the painter whose art the Guild held far inferior 
 to its own. To the "tapissier" the shuttle was 
 the brush, the loom the easel, and the colors the 
 wool, sometimes substituted for silk, sometimes 
 mingled with the gold and silver threads of Cyprus. 
 The painting of pictures was indeed a trifling 
 achievement ! To mix colors on a palette and then 
 apply them with brushes to a wooden panel, or the 
 ready-made walls of some church or palace, re- 
 quired but little time and patience; whereas, to 
 make the dyes and set up the great looms, either 
 high or low-warp, was a work in itself requiring 
 rare skill. Then the cartoon must be designed and 
 painted and a sketch made of it upon the thread- 
 like warp, even before the artist could begin his 
 woven picture. It was estimated that, under stress, 
 he might weave one square foot of tapestry in a 
 week, and not infrequently a great hanging was 
 the work of a man's life, wherein the naive con- 
 58 
 
THE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 ceits and rich coloring of his Gothic imagination 
 ran riot. When the great embroidery was com- 
 pleted it went to cover the walls of a palace or the 
 Hotel de Ville of some Flemish town. On days of 
 public rejoicing these tapestries were often hung 
 from the balconies, their gorgeous colors lighting 
 up the grim carvings of the medieval streets, while 
 their gold and silver threads flashed in the sun. 
 
 At the time of which I write, Philip of Bur- 
 gundy, always interested in the work of the Guild 
 and proud of the fame of his Flemish weavers, had 
 offered a prize to the tapissier who should design 
 and execute the most beautiful arras. The subject 
 was left to the genius of the artist ; two years were 
 allowed for its completion, and any master-weaver 
 of the Guild of Van Leyden, was eligible. Those 
 who were rich enough might employ apprentices 
 to assist in the drudgery of the work — childish 
 slaves of the loom, who mischievously clipped the 
 threads, tangled the flutes and, when they dared, 
 tormented the weavers, so that they were as much 
 dreaded as sought after in the medieval ateliers. 
 
 Among the many aspirants for the prize was 
 Christopher Hals, who entered upon the great work 
 with an ardor which advancing years had in no- 
 wise subdued. His life had been spent in the weav- 
 ing of those sumptuous hangings whereof the glory 
 59 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 is no more, save as we see it in the faded but lovely 
 relies of a lost art. Christopher lived in an ancient 
 house on the canal. His front door-way opened on 
 the dark waters that wound through the town and 
 lapped the walls of its houses. Red sail boats glided 
 close beside his windows and much of the life and 
 traffic of the city passed on the flood, silently, leis- 
 urely and all unnoticed by the Weaver ; for only the 
 life of his dreams was real to Christopher Hals. No 
 ties of love made the world vivid and compelling 
 to him; he lived alone, and, having no practical 
 concern with life, he had invented his own world 
 and worked in it with the ardor of a devotee. The 
 sphere of men and women was far less real to him 
 than the figures he wove at his 1 loom — they alone 
 lived and glowed. Christopher had never taken 
 time from his art to make friends and he was poor, 
 caring more for the number and perfection of the 
 stitches he took across the loom than for as many 
 guilders. There was no solicitous voice of love 
 to call him from his labors, and he worked as 
 , soon as the rising sun lighted the loom, often for- 
 getting to leave his bench until twilight deepened 
 in the recesses of his quaint atelier. From its win- 
 dows he sometimes watched the canal whose waters 
 seemed to flow past him like the silent, uneventful 
 days of his life. But Christopher was not unhappy 
 60 
 
TEE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 and he was never lonely, for he was not truly 
 awake. No great joy or sorrow lifted the latch of 
 his door to dispute the supremacy of his work, and 
 he lived in his monstrous loom like the spider in 
 his web. Across the woven skies of Christopher's 
 tapestry the sun never burned its way, nor winds 
 stirred the tree tops of his textile forests. Yet he 
 was happy, for to create a world of his own was 
 better than to live in one made by other men. 
 
 When the prize offered by Philip of Burgundy 
 was proclaimed to the Guild, Christopher Hals 
 undertook the great work with passionate zest. 
 For his subject he chose to depict the Loom of Life 
 before which the soul of man sits weaving the 
 threads of his own destiny, creating, as he works, 
 both good and evil, and these episodes the Weaver 
 illustrated in an allegory, quaint and imaginative. 
 Casting aside the work already in hand, Christo- 
 pher set up his loom, strung it with exquisite 
 care, as a harpist tunes each string, completed his 
 cartoon in broad, simple lines, as the finest tapestry 
 artists were wont to do, and then delicately traced 
 its outline on the threads of the loom. Too poor 
 to afford an apprentice, alone he undertook to com- 
 plete the immense task in the time allotted by the 
 Duke. To accomplish this successfully, he deter- 
 minded to remain a prisoner in his atelier until the 
 
 61 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 last thread was woven and the last flute unwound. 
 This was not a hardship, for his heart was set upon 
 success. None loved his art with a more passionate 
 devotion or a more unique absorption than Chris- 
 topher Hals. His conceits were quaint and ex- 
 quisite, his patience limitless and his faith in the 
 great mission of the Tapissier unwavering. But 
 age, as yet a dim presence on his horizon, was each 
 day approaching nearer, until suddenly and unex- 
 pectedly it met him face to face. The years of un- 
 ceasing toil and confinement began now to weigh 
 upon the Weaver, his shoulders drooped beneath 
 the yoke, before unnoticed, and he was often tired. 
 Very gradually these infirmities came upon him, 
 at first hardly more than a consciousness of his 
 body, which obtruded disagreeably upon his ab- 
 sorption. The slave he had ruled so long began 
 to struggle for freedom and, saddest of all, a cloud, 
 like the delicate film that forms on the clear waters 
 of a pool, began to veil his sight. And with its 
 first coming the heart of Christopher Hals awoke 
 to terror. 
 
 It was dark and he was alone in the chamber of 
 his house on the canal; the only voice that spoke 
 to him was the murmur of the waters splashing 
 against the walls. "Blind, blind!" it seemed to 
 say and Christopher started from his loom, his 
 62 
 
THE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 aching eyes covered by an impenetrable mist that 
 had been gathering there for days. Despair -was at 
 his heart and, raising his hands above his head, he 
 clasped them wildly, roused to an agony of appre- 
 hension. The twilight of a November day was fall- 
 ing, and sinking to his knees by the loom where, for 
 over forty years, he had dreamed of happiness, the 
 Weaver wept at the horror of a naked world, bare 
 of the bright tapestries that had clothed and beau- 
 tified it for him. The warp was blurred, the colors 
 gone and the thread of Arras glowed no more, while 
 back of them he saw for the first time the gray 
 shadow of Death. Covering his face with his hands, 
 he prayed for sight to finish this last work — his 
 masterpiece. Alas! that he might close his ears 
 against the cruel muttering of the water, creeping 
 beneath his windows and lapping the sides of his 
 rotting boat. "Blind, blind!" it seemed to 
 whisper and, as the days passed and the mist deep- 
 ened over the eyes of the Tapissier, his hearing 
 grew more sensitive to its sinister suggestion. 
 
 "Week by week he worked and suffered, striving 
 to distinguish the fine shades needed for his pic- 
 ture and seeking to fix the wavering outlines that 
 his failing vision could no longer focus. At last 
 Christopher tried resting his eyes; he bandaged 
 them so that no light should penetrate their irids 
 63 
 
RUSHLIGHT STORIES 
 
 and sat in hopeless dejection before his loom — idle 
 for the first time in his life. He felt that in the 
 Guild of fellow artists he knew no one in whom 
 to confide his misery. He wrote a letter to a friend 
 in Brussels telling him of his failing sight, but 
 more he could not do. To employ an apprentice 
 was now useless, for he could not be sure whether 
 he would work well or ill. For a while rest helped 
 his sight, and he could weave with fitful gleams of 
 his old happiness. But before the "Loom of Life" 
 was entirely finished, the term set by the Duke for 
 the completion of the tapestries expired. 
 
 Great was the excitement when the day arrived. 
 In a vaulted chamber of the Hotel de Ville the 
 "ToUes peintes" were displayed and the competi- 
 tors were assembled. Philip of Burgundy himself, 
 assisted by a Master Weaver from the looms of 
 Arras, inspected the tapestries before awarding the 
 prize. Bach artist stood before his loom while the 
 Duke, Mynheer Rooses of Arras and a richly 
 gowned assembly of nobles and Burgomasters sur- 
 veyed the work of the greatest weavers of the fif- 
 teenth century. Each competitor had been allowed 
 free choice of his subject and there were displayed 
 tapestries "des Personages" and tapestries "de 
 verdure." 
 
 The heart of Christopher Hals beat painfully in 
 64 
 
THE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 his breast as the judges approached his work; he 
 strained his eyes that he might distinguish the 
 face of Philip of Burgundy and note whether or 
 not his verdict would be favorable. The cortege 
 stopped at last before his picture and for a moment 
 all was still. 
 
 "Here is a strange thing," said the Duke in a 
 voice which echoed through the lofty chamber. 
 "This is a tapestry in which two different hands 
 seem to have wrought. The first a master, if I am 
 a judge; a superb beginning marred by the care- 
 less unskilled hand that dared ta finish it. How 
 now, sirrah?" he continued, turning on Christo- 
 pher his flashing glance, "which part is yours and 
 which another's? From your white caitiff's face 
 and trembling hand, I take you for the man who 
 dared appropriate the unfinished weaving of a 
 master, thus tampering with his great unfinished 
 work." 
 
 A silence, fraught with astonishment and con- 
 sternation, followed these words. None dared 
 speak, least of all Christopher Hals, who laid hold 
 upon his hanging for support. The shock of the 
 public accusation was terrible, an agony of humilia- 
 tion swept over him, paralyzing his power of self- 
 vindication. 
 
 "Methinks," continued the Duke, "this man is 
 65 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 hardly worthy of fellowship in our great Guild. 
 But, that everyone may have justice done him, his 
 case shall be investigated and the truth ascer- 
 tained. Mynheer Rooses and gentlemen, to the 
 next loom, where, methinks, I see a work to retrieve 
 the fallen honor of the Guild." 
 
 Toward evening of the same day, when the prize 
 had been awarded, when the banquet and speeches 
 were over, Christopher Hals returned by the canal 
 to the door of his house. Before' him, across the 
 bow of the boat, lay the rejected loom which he 
 was bringing back that he might destroy it. Fever 
 consumed the worn-out body of the "Weaver, and 
 in his delirium he was just able to propel his craft 
 down the waters of the canal. He had forgotten 
 the anguish of the day, the public disgrace and the 
 blindness that was its cause. Too stricken to rise 
 from the blow, he sought only a means of escape — 
 a burial from the world and all its cruelty and 
 injustice. Slowly and dreamily he pulled on the 
 oars avoiding, by a miracle, the laden barges of 
 the canal, until, at last, he reached his home. There 
 he did not even moor his boat, for, when he had 
 contrived the difficult unloading of the loom, he 
 suffered it to float down the canal, feeling that he 
 was done with boats and with all else on the River 
 of Life. Exhausted, he opened the dcor of his bare 
 66 
 
TEE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 . 
 
 atelier and set up the tapestry in its old position 
 with a presentiment that, in some other time and 
 place, he might retrieve his fallen honor at the 
 loom. 
 
 A faint light penetrated the window and the 
 waters lapped and whispered as before, but Chris- 
 topher heard them not. Fear and loneliness had 
 no part in his consciousness. Weakly he sank on 
 his bench and surveyed the failure of his life. 
 One corner was still unfinished and there the bare 
 warp was revealed transparent, like a white mist, 
 before the failing sight of the "Weaver. 
 
 Suddenly, as he looked, a great radiance seemed 
 to shine from that part of the loom; it fell like a 
 halo around the bench where he sat and he heard a 
 benign voice calling to him, "Christopher, Chris- 
 topher Hals, I have come for you!" Rising in an 
 ecstasy, he approached and knelt in the rays now 
 streaming through all the great loom. The mist was 
 clearing from his vision, light returned and he saw 
 all clearly as in the days of his youth. With a 
 low cry he fell forward at the foot of the loom. 
 Christopher Hals, the Master- Weaver, had seen the 
 great vision — and obeyed the voice. 
 
 A few days after, the house was opened and in 
 the atelier the visitors from the Guild saw with pity 
 67 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 and horror the body of the Weaver, lying prone 
 before his work while, above him, rose the great 
 loom with its mystic picture of the Soul weaving 
 the threads of Life. And, even as they looked, they 
 saw the golden nimbus about the face in the tap- 
 estry gleam with a sudden radiance. A light 
 shone from behind the loom, and the despised, un- 
 finished arras became glorified. No longer was 
 there any inequality in the work; it was all a 
 masterpiece, and the last part was like the 
 first. 
 
 Fearfully the spectators acknowledged the 
 greatness of the picture they beheld and, while they 
 gazed upon it, they became conscious that the figure 
 portrayed in the loom was that of Christopher Hals. 
 But his face wore a look of ecstasy. His eyes were 
 open and his arms outstretched toward the radiance 
 that flooded the picture. 
 
 "When the story of the passion and blindness of 
 the "Weaver came to be known, it made a great stir 
 in the old city by the Schelde. The Duke called 
 together the Guild of Van Leyden and made repa- 
 ration for the cruel wrong done to its departed 
 member. He commanded that the miraculous tap- 
 estry should be hung in the Cathedral of Notre 
 Dame and the weavers, out of reverence for so 
 much suffering and devotion to the vision of Art, 
 68 
 
THE TAPISSIER OF NOTRE DAME 
 
 caused the little painted window to be placed in 
 the North Transept where, to this day, Christo- 
 pher Hals looks upon the Vision of Light. 
 
 69 
 
THE GOLDEN CHRYSALIS 
 
THE GOLDEN CHRYSALIS 
 
 "^J" EAR the door of a picturesque cottage, thatch- 
 ■*■ covered and wreathed in vines, there grew a 
 Rose-tree — the haunt of innumerable bees. Butter- 
 flies and humming birds lived on the honey of the 
 roses, and each day the banquet was freshly pro- 
 vided. But occasionally a tragedy occurred to the 
 unwary frequenters of the bush, and some drunken 
 honey-bee would be locked all night in a rose, where 
 he had lingered after closing hours. At dawn when 
 the gates of his prison opened to expel the offender, 
 he was just able to stagger out into the sunshine — 
 a lost bee for that day's work. 
 
 Among the humbler inhabitants of this Rose-tree 
 was a Caterpillar who occupied a tiny apartment at 
 its roots, where the sun seldom shone and where it 
 was damp and unattractive. He was an obscure 
 person and paid the smallest rent of all the tenants. 
 Nevertheless, he admired beauty and was of a senti- 
 mental nature; so much so, that he had fallen in 
 love — aspiring to no less a person than the golden 
 73 
 
RVSH-LIGET STORIES 
 
 Butterfly. Large blue eyes shone in her wings 
 which sometimes flashed upon the poor Caterpillar 
 like lode-stars, dazzling his sight and subjugating 
 his heart. But the Butterfly was irresponsible and 
 coquettish, frittering away her time among the 
 flowers. Often she could be seen kissing the faces 
 of the pansies, who smiled roguishly among them- 
 selves when she had gone, and boasted of her many 
 indiscretions. Or again, the Butterfly spread her 
 motionless wings on the grass, that the sun might 
 illumine their powdery splendor, more brilliant than 
 all the flowers that grew before the cottage door. 
 As for the Caterpillar, she did not know of his ex- 
 istence and their paths had never crossed. Limited 
 socially and physically, he crept among the fallen 
 leaves or made his laborious way up the stems of 
 the daisies, which rocked dreadfully beneath his 
 weight. Always one thought obsessed his mind — to 
 raise himself from the ground and thus approach 
 more nearly the path of the Butterfly whom he 
 loved. He watched with stolid, but absorbed at- 
 tention, every flutter, every captivating and unex- 
 pected movement that she made, and his life, hith- 
 erto sordid and purposeless, acquired a new 
 meaning. 
 
 One day the Caterpillar was surprised by a visit 
 from his lovely neighbor, who alighted beneath the 
 74 
 
THE GOLDEN CHRYSALIS 
 
 Rose-tree, close to his side. Here, at last, was his 
 coveted opportunity. Prettily arching his back of 
 seal brown fur he addressed her thus : 
 
 '*Tou are welcome to my door-way and I only 
 wish that it was large enough for you to enter. 
 But your beautiful wings, I know, were never made 
 to fold in darkness, but rather to add brightness to 
 the sunshine. I have long watched you flying about 
 the garden, but never before have I had the good 
 fortune to speak to you, or to see you so near my 
 grotto. Rest now your painted wings and talk with 
 me." 
 
 Astonished at the small voice which rose from the 
 grass, the Butterfly, who at first saw no one, was 
 silent, while the Caterpillar continued to ingratiate 
 himself with his visitor — 
 
 "If you could know how I admire your blonde 
 loveliness, how my days pass in the hope of seeing 
 you, kindness would fill your heart and you might 
 learn to care for me even as I do for you. Pan has 
 been generous to you, bestowing upon you all the 
 gifts I lack. On your rainbow wings I long to fly. 
 I long to raise myself from my obscurity and soar 
 over the cottage roof, where beyond lies the great 
 world. But I cannot. I can only watch the flight 
 of others while it is day, and at night a glow-worm 
 lights the grotto where I sleep." 
 75 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 At these words the Caterpillar, in his efforts to 
 be seen and command a better rostrum for his elo- 
 quence, raised himself with an effort and began the 
 ascent of a golden rod which grew between them. 
 It was then that the Butterfly first beheld her bour- 
 geois admirer. Horrified at his appearance, she im- 
 mediately prepared to leave so mean a neighbor- 
 hood, where a mendicant, buttoned up in seedy furs, 
 dared address her. But, before she departed, a 
 rebuke was clearly needed, and in a sharp voice she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "This is the very first time in my experience that 
 a worm has dared speak to me, or has sought my 
 company. Your ideas are preposterous and you 
 entirely forget your place. The race of butterflies 
 represents the ethereal beauty of nature. Even the 
 coarse moths, who are our servants, desire the stars, 
 and men see in us the symbol of immortality." 
 
 "If you are, indeed, so far removed from the 
 humble ranks of those who creep upon the earth, ' ' 
 replied her admirer, "it shou*4 make you pitiful 
 of their limitations. The love and admiration of 
 the lowest surely merit some respect." 
 
 "Eespect for a creature who crawls in the dust? 
 You have certainly lost your senses. My mate shall 
 be a butterfly with flame-colored wings and for him, 
 alone, I search." 
 
 76 
 
THE GOLDEN CHRYSALIS 
 
 "Alas!" sighed the Caterpillar, "he must be 
 some fairy prince whom I have never seen. Such 
 butterflies are rare and you will be obliged to search 
 for him far over wood and meadow. And when, at 
 the end of a fruitless quest, you return to the gar- 
 den, regret may visit you for your harshness and 
 contempt. Pain may soften your hard heart and 
 teach you to feel for others — even for me — some of 
 the love I have lavished on your blue, but soulless 
 eyes." 
 
 "Never!" cried the Butterfly, incensed by the 
 daring and pertinacity of the Caterpillar. "My 
 name is Psyche and I am the symbol of the soul in 
 nature. Think you I shall seek the companionship 
 of a low-born worm?" and she flew far away from 
 the Rose-tree. 
 
 As though a mortal wound had pierced his heart, 
 the poor Caterpillar dragged himself out of the 
 brief sunshine he had enjoyed and, at the roots 
 of the Rose-tree, sought shelter beneath a withered 
 leaf where for long he suffered the loss of his il- 
 lusions. But as day waned and his little furry 
 world curled itself to forgetfulness, he, too, found 
 a sweet oblivion. For long he dreamed of a state 
 where all the conditions of his groveling existence^ 
 were reversed, and where he found himself begin- 
 ning life anew in a golden chrysalis, the frail tem- 
 77 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 pie of a miracle, great as any in nature. Happily 
 he dreamed the dream to the end, nor woke until it 
 was fulfilled. Then, his metamorphosis accom- 
 plished, he left the shell of his mortal life behind 
 him in the shadow of the Rose-tree. 
 
 It was the dawn of a summer day when he 
 emerged, his wings aflutter, light, vivid and ready 
 to soar, a Butterfly of Flame ! Palpitating with his 
 tiny measure of Nature's immortality, he extended 
 his untried wings and ascended into the sunshine. 
 All the insects flew before him. The motes, dancing 
 in the sunbeams, the angry midges, and even the 
 fur-coated bees scattered to let the gorgeous But- 
 terfly float by. 
 
 In the ecstasy of a new birth he had won ob- 
 livion — the past was forgotten, even his hopeless 
 love, and when, one day, he met the Butterfly on a 
 rose spray she seemed to him a stranger. Her wings 
 were pallid, she was only an old moth and her once 
 lovely eyes were faded and gray — but, by some 
 mysterious instinct, she recognized the glorified 
 Caterpillar and, believing he had forgotten their 
 first unfortunate meeting and enamored of his size 
 and iridescence, she beat her wings together and 
 addressed him sweetly. 
 
 78 
 
THE GOLDEN CHRYSALIS 
 
 "You are a stranger in the garden, I think. If 
 you have come to live here, let me be your friend. 
 Do not fly away, but suffer me to read the mystic 
 signs upon your wings. All my life I have been 
 seeking a Butterfly of Flame, and at last you have 
 come. Behold me ready to follow you and be your 
 mate." 
 
 But her words were uttered in vain. At the first 
 sound of her voice a dimly remembered pain smote 
 the heart of the former Caterpillar, and he flew 
 away unheeding her entreaties. Believing he had 
 recognized her, she followed him, calling upon him 
 to stop, to pardon her and listen to her entreaties. 
 
 "Alas ! forgive my unkind words, the cruelty and 
 hardness of my heart that day beneath the Kose- 
 tree. 'Twas you I was seeking, even then, but I 
 did not know you in your humble disguise. Ah! 
 do not punish me so. Turn, if only once, and say 
 that I may be your humble companion." 
 
 Her voice failed. She was too feeble to overtake 
 the soaring path of her beloved, who rose, ever 
 higher and higher into the blue sky, intoxicated by 
 his liberty and the untried strength of his wings. 
 
 The poor distracted moth watched him as he 
 lessened more and more in the distance. She ut- 
 tered sharp cries of despair and longing, which the 
 unkind Breeze carried back upon the path of her 
 79 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 pursuit. But, all unheeding, the Butterfly of Flame 
 continued his flight in quest of adventure, in quest 
 of a mate young and vivid as himself. 
 
 80 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
 A WINDMILL stood by the banks of a river 
 whose course meandered through the rich 
 grain fields of Holland. From its source to the 
 distant sea, the river spelled its name in loops and 
 curves upon the green map of the country. Just 
 in a bend of the stream the Windmill stood, slightly 
 raised above the flowering stockade of reeds and 
 irises that swayed and bent over the moving mirror 
 of the waters. How lonely he was, and how re- 
 mote from all save his neighbor the Kiver, who, in 
 passing, murmured words of endless reproach. For 
 the Windmill was a thief and a betrayer who stole 
 the treasure of the river, and wasted the waters 
 upon which he drew and for which he rendered no 
 accounting. He was a bad neighbor, and the waters 
 swelled with indignation against the injustice they 
 were helpless to avenge. But how picturesque and 
 lovable the Windmill looked! No one would have 
 thought he took advantage of the river, or that his 
 
 83 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 purposes were other than benign. Above the bank 
 where he stood his venerable form could be seen for 
 miles against the sky, where, all day long, the clouds 
 tossed their arms like giant "Windmills. 
 
 His form, or, in the parlance of the river, his 
 worthless body, was corpulent as a burgomaster's 
 and of a soft dun-color, save where the weather and 
 the vengeance of the stream blotched and pocked 
 the "Windmill's complexion. Moss and lichen 
 formed hairy tufts on his old flanks and a mantle 
 of ivy was thrown across his shoulders. The wind 
 turned his head with a creaking sound, and his dark 
 Cyclopean eye surveyed the vast wheatfields that 
 stretched to the horizon where the sky mirrored 
 itself in the flowing river. 
 
 The Windmill's arms were rarely at rest, but 
 tossed above his head like those of some unhappy 
 monster making signals of distress. At times they 
 whirled so rapidly that they seemed a hundred 
 arms, instead of four, and again they rose and fell 
 with such langorous gestures that one could almost 
 touch them in their ponderous descent. They were 
 long and powerful, and each one wore a kind of 
 brig sail which caused the arm to revolve with every 
 breath of wind, no matter how weary the Windmill 
 felt. He was ashamed of these sails, for they were 
 stained and patched in many places, and he had 
 84 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
 quite forgotten when they were white and beautiful 
 like the cloud sails overhead. 
 
 On windy days the Windmill groaned and cried 
 aloud, lamenting his unceasing labors, which, like 
 those of Sysiphus, seemed endless and abortive. He 
 thought sadly of his solitary life, far from the com- 
 pany of other "Windmills, of the cruel reproaches 
 of the river and the ceaseless tyranny of the wind, 
 now violent, now treacherous, but always a capri- 
 cious task-master. For what did the Windmill 
 know of the hidden meaning of his existence, any 
 more than the two armed creatures who tilled the 
 fields around him, sowing the wheat and later bind- 
 ing it into sheaves ? He could not have told why he 
 stole the water that ran by his feet or why the 
 stream called him a thief and taught the passing 
 boats to mock him. "Ship ahoy! Gaffer Moulin," 
 they would shout, as they rounded the bend in the 
 river and passed the bank where he stood. "Fine 
 blowy weather for a sail ! Why don't you join the 
 fleet? What are your old sails worth if you can't 
 make use of them? You've run aground, old boy, 
 and you need a tow line to drag you off. Look at 
 us, how fast we glide along; our days pass in the 
 midst of usefulness and adventure. When we get 
 becalmed we force the mules along the tow path 
 to pull us until the wind puffs up and catches our 
 85 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 sails. "We carry passengers who pay us well, and 
 cargoes of grain and cheese which we bear to the 
 seaport towns, and on which the world depends. 
 Holland could not exist without our red sails. Why 
 don't you set sail yourself, old Stick-in-the-mud? 
 Leave your dry dock and let yourself go on the deep 
 currents of the river. At least see the world before 
 you die!" 
 
 Alas ! poor Gaffer Moulin could only toss his arms 
 more desperately, groaning aloud as he turned his 
 troubled eye from the mocking fleet, more fortu- 
 nate than himself. How he longed for legs, as well 
 as arms, that he might leave his friendless solitude 
 and seek some sheltered spot remote from the wind 
 and the river, where his dark lonely breast might 
 be habited by human life, where cottages might 
 cluster about him, and other "Windmills keep him 
 company. He loved it when a stray sheep came to 
 him for hospitality, and what would it be to have 
 a human being seek shelter in his midst? At night 
 the bats circled round him, sinister and dumb, flap- 
 ping their veiled arms not unlike his own. Or at 
 other times their bourgeois relatives, the rats, came 
 up from the river to pilfer in the grain fields or to 
 gnaw at his vitals through the long winter 
 nights. 
 
 Life was a mystery; that was certain, and no 
 86 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
 CEdipua was there to guess its riddle, which, for 
 the "Windmill, resolved itself into three ques- 
 tions: "What is the reason of your existence? 
 "Whom do you serve? What does your travail ac- 
 complish? 
 
 Nevertheless, he had one friend and companion 
 whom he welcomed with open arms, a little boy who 
 came each day to play with him and who spent hours 
 climbing in and out of the Windmill, investigating 
 every bone and sinew of his old frame. To the 
 child's fancy he seemed alive and of a personality 
 altogether charming and mysterious. For Hans, as 
 for Don Quixote, the old Windmill was a giant, but 
 a benign one who opened his breast to the child 
 and took him to play in his great empty heart. 
 Bravely Hans mounted the winding stairway to the 
 "Windmill's head, which turned according as the 
 wind blew. He watched the simple mechanism of 
 the central shaft with no more understanding of 
 its purposes than Gaffer Moulin himself, and the 
 child wondered, as the boats wondered, why the 
 Windmill's sails never carried him anywhere. Hans 
 spent hours thus absorbed in the romance of his 
 giant playfellow, ignorant of the language he spoke, 
 which sometimes rolled from him in great, sonorous 
 words, or again subsided to a gentle whisper. Hans 
 listened until he fancied the Windmill told him 
 87 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 tales of adventure more romantic, more wonderful 
 than the stories of his grandmother, which he loved 
 to hear on winter evenings by the tall Dutch stove. 
 One spring morning when the balmy air was still 
 and only the lightest breeze blurred the sky's re- 
 flection in the river, Gaffer Moulin stood at rest, 
 his arms motionless, his head turned to the South. 
 Each day the sun, advancing with shining, imper- 
 ceptible steps, penetrated further into his dark in- 
 terior as though to bring him light and consolation. 
 Along the distant tow-path the figure of a man 
 could be seen silhouetted against the solitude of 
 sky and river. He advanced rapidly with swinging 
 steps and the blithe, irresponsible air natural to 
 artists and philosophers when, knapsack on back, 
 staff in hand, they take to the open country on a 
 spring morning. The traveler's face was bronzed 
 by sun and wind and his glance was keen, as though 
 no passing light or shadow escaped his bright vision. 
 Gaffer Moulin saw him and was glad, for he seemed 
 the embodiment of life and adventure. The child, 
 in his blue smock and sabots, sat playing in a ray 
 of sunshine which crossed the threshold and entered 
 the old mill, leaving the rest of the interior in 
 shadow. Here was an effect in chiaroscuro and the 
 artist's voice broke the stillness with a strain from 
 an old song: 
 
 88 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
 " 'Combien j'ai douce souvenance 
 Dii joli lieu de ma naissance!' " 
 
 At some paces from the knoll he stopped to feast 
 his sight on the picture so altogether charming and 
 picturesque, and the "Windmill turned his great eye 
 to watch what would happen next. First a port- 
 able easel was produced and set in place, then, un- 
 slinging his knapsack and taking from it his colors 
 and sketching materials, the artist began to work 
 with rapid strokes. 
 
 Gaffer Moulin felt his pulses beat with amaze- 
 ment. Could Jie be the subject of all this attention ? 
 he wondered, and suddenly he swung his delighted 
 arms with loud, uncouth sounds. Hans, roused 
 from his day-dream, forsook his corner in the door- 
 way and ran down the bank to satisfy his curiosity 
 as to the stranger's occupation. Spellbound he 
 stood beside the easel, then, at a few words from 
 the painter, returned to his place in the sunshine, 
 where he played quietly for the rest of the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "When the far away steeples announced the hour 
 of noon, the stranger stopped his work reluctantly 
 and climbed up the bank to join his models, smiling, 
 as though well satisfied with the morning's accom- 
 plishment. He seated himself beside the tiny, tow- 
 89 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 haired Hans and together they discussed a frugal 
 repast of black bread, cheese and wine from a stout 
 flask. Gaffer Moulin, enchanted by the sense of 
 affording hospitality to a new and distinguished 
 guest, listened attentively to his conversation, and 
 this is what he heard: 
 
 "Do you like the old Windmill, my little lad?" 
 
 "I love him," answered the child, "and when I 
 get to be big I am going to live here always." 
 
 "Listen to the strange sounds he is making! 
 Does he often talk to you like that?" 
 
 "Yes, often, Monsieur." 
 
 "And what does he say?" 
 
 "Ah! that I can never be sure of. Sometimes I 
 think he only talks to the wind, for the wilder it 
 blows the louder the Windmill replies. Why does 
 he toss his arms so high, and why has he sails if 
 they are no use to him?" 
 
 "Then you do not know," replied the artist, look- 
 ing into the child's ingenious eyes, "what the Wind- 
 mill accomplishes as he turns his great gaunt 
 arms?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur. Tell me about it. Tell me if he 
 is really a giant in disguise." 
 
 Gaffer Moulin became very quiet at these mo- 
 mentous words, and he listened so that not a syl- 
 lable should be lost. 
 
 90 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
 "Well, then," began the painter, lifting the flask 
 of Burgundy to his thirsty lips, "the old Windmill 
 is an important character in this land of canals. 
 You have often seen how the wind whirls his arms, 
 but you have not known why, or that the great 
 shaft, which runs up and down his body, like a 
 spine, rises and falls as his arms turn, and so 
 pumps the water up from the river and carries it 
 through the wheatfields in pipes and tiny canals. 
 This waters the land that the farmer sows in the 
 spring. Without the labors of the Windmill, the 
 great fields of grain would suffer thirst and Holland 
 would no longer be the rich land that it is today. ' ' 
 Hans listened spell-bound, half afraid now of his 
 old friend who was so suddenly invested with prac- 
 tical attributes. In the child's mind the Windmill 
 seemed less fascinating than when he believed him 
 some Gargantua of the fields. 
 
 "Why do you paint him?" asked Hans, after- 
 struggling with his astonishment for a moment or 
 two in silence. 
 
 "Why? because he is so picturesque, so quaint. 
 You are too young yet to immortalize him with your 
 brush or your fancy, as I hope to do : but some day 
 you, too, may be an artist. Then you will love the 
 soft, powdery coloring age has deposited upon him, 
 the cape of ivy which he wears wrapped close about 
 91 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 him. You will think his sail-clad arms a delightful 
 study against the blue sky and his old red head an 
 added charm in the landscape, over which he pre- 
 sides like a benefieent giant. I am in love with the 
 subject, little man, and I have traveled miles to 
 paint it. The old Windmill appeals to me as to 
 you, only differently. We both feel in him the ele- 
 ments of romance and of charm. How patiently 
 and constantly he labors for the good of the earth! 
 Bring to him a little imagination, which, for the 
 artist, is more vital than all the colors on his palette, 
 and the Windmill seems alive. His soul is the 
 breath of the wind, his arms are the servants of the 
 land. All this I must somehow put into my pic- 
 ture, so that the world may feel it, may see h\m as 
 the guardian of the fields, the patient, indefatigable 
 toiler whose work is never done." 
 
 The child looked up in the artist's face. His heart 
 was won by the charm of his words and by the in- 
 spiration of the great painter. He did not under- 
 stand all that he had heard, but after their talk waB 
 ended and his new friend had risen, Hans followed 
 him like an obedient little sheep back to the easel, 
 where he beheld with delight the work of one morn- 
 ing and recognized with awe his own little form 
 playing in the sunbeams. 
 
 But what did the Windmill think ? What was his 
 92 
 
THE WINDMILL 
 
 joy at hearing the artist's words and knowing, at 
 last, the answer to all the mysteries that had per- 
 plexed him ! Clear as the sunny fields lay the mean- 
 ing of his being. His work was as important to the 
 world as that of the scornful boats who had called 
 him useless and contemptible. Henceforth the river 
 would not dare accuse him of robbery, for he drew 
 from its source to serve great and legitimate ends. 
 He whirled his arms in ecstasy as he thought how 
 the painter would one day show him to the world ; 
 how he would reveal him as a picturesque, vener- 
 able figure, standing like a landmark in the midst 
 of the grain fields he watered, where, for over a hun- 
 dred years he had served the life and fortunes of 
 Holland. 
 
 93 
 
THE MARIONETTES 
 
THE MARIONETTES 
 
 "PAULINE and Prospero were actors — members 
 ■*■ of a strolling troop of Marionettes, who, with 
 the assistance of their Director, gave representa- 
 tions of the drama in all its phases, from the 
 tragedies of Euripides to the joyous secrets of Poli- 
 chinelle. "While summer lasted they journeyed 
 through the mountains of Savoie, giving per- 
 formances in the village market places to the de- 
 light of the inhabitants, who were moved to tears 
 and laughter by the talents of the little wooden 
 actors. 
 
 Pauline was the leading lady — la premiere, as 
 they said in Savoie — Prospero was the leading man, 
 and, after they had made love to please the public, 
 they made it behind the scenes to please themselves. 
 Thus at the close of the summer they had become 
 genuine actors of the grand passion. Playing with 
 fire, they were at last touched by the flame, and the 
 thought of their coming separation filled their 
 97 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 hearts with sadness. But the closed season for 
 strolling marionette shows had come at last — Au- 
 tumnal rains and short, dark days decided their 
 Director to close the theatre and put away the little 
 actors, each in his solitary box, to await the coming 
 of spring. 
 
 The night of the final performance arrived, the 
 curtain had gone down for the last time, the lights 
 were out and the little company slept in their beds 
 — all save Pauline, who could not rest for sorrow 
 at the thought of parting from her lover. Alas! if 
 Monsieur le Directeur would but place them in the 
 same box, that they might continue near each other 
 through the long winter ! But this she knew was 
 impossible, even could she implore such a favor; 
 and, added to her sorrow, was another and deeper 
 cause of regret,— the realization that she was only a 
 painted doll amid a troop of dolls. Her helpless 
 wooden body could never act without leading 
 strings. Never could she interpret the roles she 
 loved, nor utter with her own lips the words that 
 thrilled her audience and passed for her own. 
 
 "Alas!" she cried, in her cruel disillusionment, 
 "how shall I attain the secret of life— that spark 
 of divine fire?" 
 
 During the night, while everyone slept, Pauline 
 arose and visited the box of Prospero. The cold 
 98 
 
THE MARIONETTES 
 
 face of the moon looked in through the casement 
 where he lay, and, by its melancholy light, she re- 
 garded him long and sadly. In sleep he had lost 
 all semblance of life, his cheek was pale, his little 
 wooden body rigid and immovable. 
 
 "He is only a Marionette," she sighed, "only be- 
 hind the foot-lights have we any semblance of life," 
 and, weeping passionately, she kissed him. 
 
 The dawn was cold and Pauline, from her soli- 
 tary bed, looked down on the inn-yard where the 
 Director was kindling a fire. His matches were 
 damp and would not strike, so he had carefully 
 selected two pieces of wood which he rubbed to- 
 gether in a manner that excited a lively curiosity 
 in the mind of Pauline, who watched him atten- 
 tively. At last, after much manipulation, a spark 
 snapped out from the friction of the wood and the 
 sticks caught fire. With this magic torch the Di- 
 rector lighted the tinder he had prepared and in 
 a moment a hundred tongues of flame rose in the 
 gray morning air. 
 
 As the meaning of what she had seen dawned on 
 the mind of Pauline, she rose, trembling with joy 
 and amazement, and ran to waken Prospero. 
 
 "Mori ami!" she cried, seizing his hand and 
 pressing it in both her own, "I have seen a miracle; 
 I have discovered a great secret. Awake! awake! 
 99 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 for there is life in your wooden body; the spark 
 we lack can be kindled in our very substance — we 
 have been benumbed through ignorance, dear Pros- 
 pero, but from this moment we shall know life and 
 fire ! Eub your hands against mine, gently at first, 
 then more and more quickly and you will see a 
 miracle!" 
 
 But a sudden note of sadness thrilled her 
 voice. "I feel reluctant to persuade you, mon ami, 
 for the experiment is full of danger. You must be 
 willing to die, perhaps, for the attainment of this 
 secret." 
 
 Sitting upright in his little box, with awe and 
 amazement in his eyes, Prospero replied cour- 
 ageously : 
 
 "I have no fear, Sweetheart, and should this 
 experiment, however terrible and dangerous, free 
 me from the stigma of a wooden puppet and enable 
 me to love you as a man of flesh and blood, I will 
 yield myself to any proof, even to death itself." 
 
 ' ' Then, ' ' said Pauline, as they tenderly embraced, 
 "we will, if need be, die together, for, by the 
 means which I have discovered, we shall escape the 
 pangs of separation. Eise, my Prospero ! and take 
 my hands, so. Eub your own against them and we 
 shall know our fate." 
 
 After repeated efforts, a spark flew up between 
 100 
 
THE MARIONETTES 
 
 them, and, rubbing their little hands together more 
 and more rapidly, flames at last burst from their 
 contact. 
 
 With a cry of rapture and pain they felt life — 
 warm and palpitating — thrill through their being, 
 and then a terrible wall of fire enveloped them. 
 Clinging to each other, they sought to escape the 
 consequences of their act, but the closer they em- 
 braced, the fiercer grew the heat that consumed 
 them, until they ceased to suffer, ceased at last to 
 be soulless puppets and all that was left of their 
 little wooden bodies ascended in a curl of fragrant 
 smoke, and was lost in the blue sky. 
 
 101 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 OIGNOR LORENZO GALEOTTI lived in an 
 ^ old Court not far from Fleet Street. It was 
 called Dove Court and the hurrying pedestrian 
 might pass within a stone's throw and not discover 
 that any such obscure place existed on the map of 
 an eighteenth century London. Built over, bricked 
 up and forgotten, one would look for it in vain 
 today ; but the old mansion of Signor Galeotti was 
 much sought after by the wealthy and superstitious 
 Londoners of his time. Princes had been known 
 to consult his occult learning and travelers from 
 his native Italy looked upon him as the great 
 astrologer of the age. 
 
 The entrance to Dove Court lay East of Temple 
 Bar and was approached through a low archway. 
 Stepping abruptly from the crowd of mendicants, 
 criers, ballad singers and chair-men that infested 
 Fleet Street in the days of George I, the visitor to 
 Signor Galeotti passed through this archway where 
 105 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 silence, falling suddenly, smote the ear with a sense 
 of deafness. Beyond, a narrow, circuitous passage 
 opened before the pedestrian where, at each turn, a 
 lantern flickered in the gloom and where the win- 
 dows of ancient houses looked down like half -blind 
 eyes. Just when the most courageous gave him- 
 self up for lost, a welcome opening in the maze 
 revealed the Square called Dove Court, and the 
 mansion and garden of Signor Galeotti. 
 
 In the center of this hidden court grew a plane- 
 tree, whose branches extended far beyond the green 
 from which it rose. A fountain played beneath 
 and a traditional race of doves inhabited the tree 
 and cooed in the melancholy twilights. There, on 
 the brightest day of summer, the sun found its 
 way with difficulty and, when once there, became 
 too depressed to remain for more than an hour or 
 so. The court was paved with uneven flags and 
 the water from the fountain overflowed and lay in 
 shining pools between the stones. Even in the 
 days of its youth, Dove Court was a sombre, buried- 
 alive sort of place and one might have been miles 
 from the great city, save for its endless roar and 
 for the echoing footsteps that reached it from 
 Fetter Lane and Holborn. At evening, when 
 silence settled down upon the Square, the splash 
 of the fountain could be heard through the open 
 106 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 windows, accompanied by the mournful note of 
 the doves. Then the sound of bells became audible 
 from their cloudy, smoke-wrapped towers, — the 
 bells of St. Martin's and Mary-le-bow, of St. 
 Bride's and St. Paul's. 
 
 The house of Signor Galeotti was approached by 
 quaintly railed steps. Above the double doors that 
 admitted one to the hall, was a fanlight, curiously 
 defended by a metal shaft, from which sharp 
 spikes darted out in all directions. This contriv- 
 ance served as a guard, and was placed above the 
 doors of old London houses to discourage the pop- 
 ulace from depositing their illegitimate offspring 
 on their more respectable neighbors. These un- 
 welcome little Cockneys were put over the tran- 
 soms by means of a rope and basket, and were 
 found inside the door the next morning. But no 
 one in his right mind would have made so free 
 with the door of the Italian Astrologer, for he was 
 feared and avoided by the little community of 
 Dove Court and its neighborhood. His dark, flash- 
 ing eyes, swarthy coloring and majestic mien made 
 him conspicuous wherever he went, and, while the 
 ignorant believed him a practitioner of the Black 
 Arts, more intelligent persons, who knew him by 
 sight, admired his striking appearance and regarded 
 him as a great scholar. 
 
 107 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 Within the house of the Astrologer few entered, 
 save those rich and incredulous believers in his art 
 who came to consult him in their difficulties and 
 learn their future destinies from the aspect of the 
 stars. The Seer lived alone with an Italian man- 
 servant, who was believed to be deep in the occult 
 arts of his Master. From his stately room, with 
 its deep embrasures and pictured walls, Signor 
 Galeotti looked out upon the Court and the black- 
 ened trees of his garden, where, at night, he swept 
 the skies with his telescope and where, by day, he 
 often walked to the delight and curiosity of the 
 little chimney-sweeps, cats' meat men and wander- 
 ing Savoyards with their white mice and tiny 
 organs. These travelers from a far country came 
 each spring to play to the Maestro and to catch 
 the small silver coins he never forgot for the chil- 
 dren of la belle France. In truth, Signor Gale- 
 otti was a kindly man as well as a philosopher, 
 who would not have hurt a fly, save in the way of 
 some recondite experiment. 
 
 He dwelt for the most part in the great cham- 
 ber that occupied the first floor and ran the length 
 of the house. Here were collected thousands of 
 books, manuscripts, charts and celestial globes. 
 Maps of the heavens were spread out everywhere, 
 and, what appeared most striking on entering the 
 108 
 
TEE ZODIAC 
 
 room for the first time, was the magnificent fresco 
 composed of the Twelve Signs of the Zodiac, which 
 extended completely round the walls. Conspicuous 
 among them was the presentment of the winged 
 Virgo, a sheaf of wheat in her left hand, her right 
 raised to the blue zenith with a look of rapt con- 
 templation on her face — the benign Astarte of the 
 heavens. Not far away, crouched the protecting 
 Lion, the star Regulus shining on his breast and a 
 chain of stars encircling his mane. Near him hung 
 aloft the golden Scales where, during each recur- 
 ring equinox, the Day and Night were balanced. 
 Opposite the Virgin could be seen the cold, watery 
 sign of Pisces, one pointing north, one south, sail- 
 ing across the Square of Pegasus, baleful fishes 
 and unpropitious to those born under their sign. 
 Scorpio, older than the Zodiac, with outstretched 
 claws embracing Libra, swung his magnificent tail 
 above the horizon; while, third and last of the 
 adverse signs, stood the amphibious Goat-fish Cap- 
 ricorn, treacherous to man. Leading the proces- 
 sion, rearing and stamping as he entered the Vernal 
 equinox, was Aries, the great Ram, his head low- 
 ered with goat-like menace. This train of the starry 
 monsters of Babylon was notable and one's imagi- 
 nation fled with them to the ends of the earth, to 
 those Chaldean star-gazers, who first conceived a 
 109 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 Zodiac and peopled the skies with its fabulous 
 creatures. 
 
 Here, under a painted heaven, the Astrologer 
 passed his days. Here he received his guests and 
 patrons; here cast horoscopes and foretold the fu- 
 ture of those who had faith in his astrological phil- 
 osophy. Sincerely believing in himself and his 
 mission, the Maestro felt called to the interpreta- 
 tion of a great but declining science — its last dis- 
 tinguished exponent in an age of skepticism. 
 
 On a day of early spring in the year 1720, Signor 
 Lorenzo Galeotti was seated in the deep bay win- 
 dow of his sanctuary. Before him stood a globe of 
 the starry firmament, which he turned and studied 
 attentively, stopping, now and again, to make a 
 note, or compare some calculation with the printed 
 page that lay open before him. Outside the win- 
 dow the plane-tree was bursting into silvery leaves ; 
 a gleam of blue sky cast an oblique glance over the 
 sombre square where spring could be felt in the 
 balmy air and in the first song of the robin, min- 
 gling with the contralto of the doves. They flut- 
 tered in the branches and alighted in the spray of 
 the fountain to cleanse their sooty wings, or dip 
 their pink feet in the pools left between the flags. 
 Presently the languor of the atmosphere penetrated 
 the chamber of the Astrologer. His mind wandered 
 110 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 to the outside world, where Spring made even the 
 dark walla of Dove Court seem but a veil through 
 which its vernal influence might pass. 
 
 Suddenly, while Signor Galeotti gazed from his 
 open window, a sedan-chair was borne into the 
 Court. 
 
 "A visitor," thought the Maestro with a sigh 
 of regret. He had wanted to complete an impor- 
 tant horoscope for no less a patron than the Earl 
 of Wilmington, and he perceived with annoyance 
 an interruption to his researches. Swiftly the 
 chair-men approached with their burden, which 
 they set down before Signor Galeotti 's door. A 
 thundering knock proclaimed the importance of 
 the visitor, who descended from the chair and 
 passed into the house. In a moment Antonio, the 
 Sicilian servant and confident of the Seer, an- 
 nounced that a lady, who declined to give her 
 name, was below, and desired speech with the 
 Signor. 
 
 "Is she one of my clients, Antonio; have you 
 seen her here before?" 
 
 "No, Signor, she is a stranger to me, but dis- 
 tinguished, for I marked a coronet on the panels 
 of the chair. She is heavily veiled and awaits your 
 permission to ascend." 
 
 "Admit her," replied Galeotti, rising from 
 111 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 among the litter attendant on his researches. 
 "Request her to ascend to my Sanctum, Antonio. 
 To all who come, the Stars have a message to re- 
 veal, and I, their lowly interpreter, must withhold 
 from none the decrees of Heaven." 
 
 But, even as he spoke, the slight form of his 
 visitor stood in the doorway, as though too agi- 
 tated or too impatient to await the formal sum- 
 mons. 
 
 "Madame ! you are welcome to the retreat of the 
 Cenobite," exclaimed the Italian, advancing with 
 necessary precaution among a forest of globes, 
 chests and tables devoted to strange astronomical 
 instruments. "Enter," he continued, bowing with 
 courtly politeness, "and tell me what I may do to 
 assist you." 
 
 The appearance of the philosopher was certainly 
 striking and, in his flowing velvet robe and skull 
 cap, he would have ma^de a study worthy of the 
 brush of Moroni. 
 
 Throwing back her veil, his visitor glanced first 
 at Galeotti, not without an emotion of fear, and 
 then toward the painted walls of the singular 
 chamber where she found herself. Never had so 
 young a visitor come to consult the Adept and 
 he beheld with sympathy her consternation at find- 
 ing herself alone in such surroundings. 
 112 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 "You discover me in my workshop, Madame, 
 where I study, and where I seek to discover the 
 purposes of the heavenly bodies in regard to the 
 destiny of mankind. Here I remain while it is day, 
 but at night I have still a better retreat in my 
 garden, whose trees you may see from the window 
 yonder. There, through my telescope, I travel 
 among the stellar spaces; I journey like a disem- 
 bodied spirit from one shining firmament to an- 
 other. I see the star swarms, I follow the Via 
 Lactea up to the great Zenith from where I can 
 behold the galaxy of Grecian Gods set forever in 
 the heavens. There I study the signs of the Zodiac 
 which you see painted on my walls. 'A circle of 
 living creatures,' as Aristotle called them, old as 
 the science of Astronomy itself. Are you interested 
 in the study of the stars?" continued the courtly 
 Galeotti, pleased to see by her face that he had 
 diverted his client's mind from its first embarrass- 
 ment. "But do not stand; pray, sit down beside 
 this table and look at my Babylonian Monsters." 
 
 The young lady took an arm-chair, more like a 
 throne than an ordinary seat and, lifting her eyes 
 to the Zodiac, let them travel from one sign to 
 the other. Meantime the charmed astrologer pro- 
 pounded their characters and attributes, free the 
 while to study her unconscious face so lovely that, 
 113 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 for a moment, the stars seemed of secondary im- 
 portance. In the gray eyes there was a pensive 
 beauty, which glowed and deepened as she was 
 moved by emotion, and which made her charm as 
 unusual as it was compelling. 
 
 "Some call the Circle you behold," said her 
 host, 'Our Ladye's Waye,' possibly because it 
 marks the path of the Moon, a symbol of the Virgin 
 Mother." 
 
 "I have heard of the Circle of the Zodiac," re- 
 plied his visitor, "but I never realized it was inter- 
 esting and wonderful like this. Do the stars in- 
 deed form the outlines of these strange super- 
 natural shapes?" 
 
 "No, Madame, no," replied the astrologer, smil- 
 ing at her naivete. "Even under the largest tele- 
 scope, much is left to the imagination concerning 
 the Mystic Circle." 
 
 "Who invented them, Signor Galeotti, and what 
 are their meanings?" 
 
 "Ah," replied the Italian, "you ask a question I 
 could take hours to answer, for there were many 
 such mystic circles among the ancients. The 
 Zodiac of Denderah was one of the most venerable, 
 forgotten now by all save some curious scholar like 
 myself. In that Circle, Councillor Gods, or stars, 
 presided over each sign. The Accadians called the 
 114 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 Zodiac the 'Furrow of Heaven,' ploughed by the 
 directing Bull, whom you see on the fresco. They 
 believed him to be the leader of the starry twelve, 
 but now, owing to the Precession of the Equinoxes, 
 he has been superseded. The Chinese boasted a 
 Zodiac of the Moon as well as the Sun. Our 
 Zodiac is due to the fact that the ancient Baby- 
 lonian year began with the vernal equinox. Aries 
 is the sign of Spring and he is now in the ascend- 
 ant." 
 
 ' 'Aries means a ram ! Ah ! I see him, ' ' exclaimed 
 the girl, completely absorbed, and apparently for- 
 getful of any other mission to the house of Signor 
 Galeotti than to hear from his eloquent lips the 
 Arcanum of the stars. "But I prefer Taurus for 
 a leader; he is handsomer and more imposing in 
 every way." 
 
 The Maestro smiled, enchanted by her frank 
 desire to learn and by her confidence in him. 
 
 "Some believe the cradle of astronomy to have 
 been in the Himalayas, elevated more near the 
 stellar firmament than Egypt, which claims a still 
 more ancient knowledge of the stars. Tradition has 
 it that the world was created under the protection 
 of Aries, the Earn, whose warlike personality dis- 
 pleases you and who now takes precedence over 
 Taurus. The Accadian name for this creation 
 115 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 month was Bara-zigger. But I forget myself in 
 my mania. God made me first an astronomer, 
 Signorina, then a man." 
 
 At these words, his visitor's gaze left the Via 
 Solic and met that of Signor Galeotti with a smile, 
 in which wonder remained but all fear had van- 
 ished. 
 
 "It interests me more than I can say and what 
 you tell me seems the language of a vaster and 
 more mysterious world. But women, alas ! are not 
 taught such sciences. I know as much as most 
 ladies of my rank who study the horn-book when 
 they are children and then learn the noble arts of 
 embroidery, dancing and spinet-playing. We are 
 looked upon as unsexed if we would become more 
 learned." 
 
 "You cannot fear that fate, Madame," replied 
 the Italian. "You are too beautiful to descend to 
 anything so mortal as masculinity." 
 
 "You flatter me, Signor," she replied with 
 slight hauteur. "But, to be no longer wasteful of 
 your valuable time, let me to my object in coming 
 here and in seeking you as one who may, perhaps, 
 assist me in my need." 
 
 "Madame, behold jrour servant, Lorenzo Gale- 
 otti!" 
 
 "Signor, swear to me first, before I tell you my 
 116 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 errand, that my confidence shall be inviolate." 
 Signorina, I swear it by the sign of the Virgin 
 above your head." 
 
 "Signor Galeotti," his client began with sudden 
 directness, "I am in much perplexity. I have 
 often heard from my father of your power to read 
 the stars, and I decided to consult you. I am 
 Mary, Countess of Ravenswood, and I have escaped 
 observation long enough to come here. No one 
 knows where I am. Free at last," she cried, 
 "alone, unchaperoned for the first time in my 
 life!" She smiled and went on with her confes- 
 sion. "My father wishes me to make a brilliant 
 marriage with a man of his own age, who professes 
 to love me, but from whom I turn with repugnance. 
 Alas ! Signor, I might have found courage to obey 
 the hard conditions of my rank, had I not known 
 the possibilities of another kind of marriage where 
 love is greater than worldly considerations." 
 
 "There is an old Spanish proverb, Signorina, 
 which says, 'No one can love and be wise at the 
 same time,' but one may be happy — for a while." 
 
 ' ' Happy ? ' ' queried the young Countess. ' ' Hap- 
 piness brings peace, this feeling is too poignant, 
 it is at war with all the conventions and worldly 
 standards of my life. I must enjoy it in secret. 
 I must sacrifice to it my obedience, my father's 
 117 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 love and all that I have valued hitherto. Signor, 
 there must be other standards for love than mere 
 suitability of rank; and wealth. Love should not 
 mean disgrace and ostracism. "Why punish love as 
 a sin?" 
 
 She was silent a moment and, unfurling her. 
 ivory fan, gazed abstractedly at the painted loves 
 of Phyllis and Corydon ; but the watchful Astrolo- 
 ger knew that the inward eye saw them not. He 
 was stirred to unwonted depths by the signs of 
 troubled mutiny in his youthful visitor, and he 
 divined the soul within at war with her caste. 
 
 Glancing up at last from her reverie, she con- 
 tinued with more constraint. 
 
 "My predicament is this: I have met, during 
 the last season, a famous scholar and poet who has 
 changed my world — revolutionized my thoughts. 
 "We love each other and he wishes me to marry 
 him. If I do so my father will disown ma I 
 shall be dishonored in my world, friendless and 
 penniless. I shall have given all for love and in 
 this difficulty I have come to ask you to forecast 
 the future; to read the heavens and tell me, if 
 indeed you can, whether the stars are propitious to 
 such a union." 
 
 Signor Galeotti drew a long breath. A pang 
 that he could in nowise have explained caused him 
 118 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 to look away from the expressive face, whose every 
 shade of thought and feeling he had been inter- 
 preting, and which seemed to plead for his inter- 
 cession with Fate. Secrets had long been his daily 
 bread, but this one seemed leavened with more 
 significance than those which came under his pro- 
 fessional notice. Suppose a malign aspect of the 
 stars presaged misery for the beautiful, courageous 
 girl? Could he tell her the truth, and send her 
 away burdened with an unhappy secret? He 
 looked up suddenly, to find her eyes scrutinizing 
 him. 
 
 "Should I find, after casting your two horo- 
 scopes, that the heavens are against your union, 
 would it influence you seriously; would you 
 give up the man who — who loves you, Sig- 
 norina?" 
 
 Silence fell between them for a moment, broken 
 only by the mournful cooing of the doves in the 
 old plane-tree. 
 
 "I cannot be sure, Signor, but I think not." 
 
 "Then, why consult me? "Why risk the pain of 
 my possible discevery?" 
 
 "I had not thought so much of an adverse con- 
 junction of the planets, as I had hoped that their 
 bright augury would give me courage to go for- 
 ward into the new life. The world is so unkind 
 119 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 to my love, surely Heaven cannot be my enemy 
 as well." 
 
 "Signorina, I did not say so — it was far from 
 my thoughts — nor do I believe it probable. Ap- 
 proach nearer and let me look straight in your 
 eyes. Courage lights them," mused the philoso- 
 pher, "truth and nobility look out from their 
 depths. How can Fate harm you when your soul 
 possesses these gifts?" 
 
 "N crtheless, Signor, I am vulnerable through 
 my love. Alone I might be safe, but, when another 
 destiny mingles with mine, I tremble. I am super- 
 stitious; tell me what the stars decree, if such a 
 revelation be possible." 
 
 "You are not superstitious, Signorina. Pythag- 
 oras maintained that the earth is actuated by a 
 divine soul, and so it would seem, when we realize 
 the miraculous sympathy between the heavenly 
 bodies and the waters surrounding the earth which 
 are governed by their influence. May not the stars 
 in their courses shed a guiding influence on human 
 destiny? The Egyptians called them 'dwellers in 
 the abyss'; let us see if they will not shine upon 
 your future, now wrapped in darkness. Tell me 
 the hour, month, day and year of your nativity 
 and also of the Signor poet. It will take me a 
 week to compare your geniturea and to study all 
 120 
 
TEE ZODIAC 
 
 the planetary influences constantly operating to 
 produce effects on the body and soul of every 
 human being." 
 
 Signor Galeotti glanced hastily over the paper 
 which his visitor put into his hands and beheld, 
 with consternation, that both nativities were under 
 malevolent planetary signs. Gemini in opposition 
 to the Moon and the signs of Scorpio, Capricorn 
 and Pisces, all bent on mischief. Too true a be- 
 liever in the science of astrology to doubt these 
 baleful aspects, he frowned, but kept his head bent 
 over his task until he had cleared his visage of its 
 passing cloud. His visitor, however, had divined 
 a sign unfavorable to her wishes, and prepared to 
 leave the Maestro. 
 
 "You find something unpropitious to our hopes, 
 Signor?" 
 
 Rising from his troubled calculations, the 
 Astrologer smiled. "Some aspects of every House 
 are adverse. Your horoscopes are not yet be- 
 gun. I must study much; I must consider a 
 hundred influences before I can give you your an- 
 swer." 
 
 "Signor, your heart is sympathetic to me, but 
 
 you are too honest to deceive me. Your tongue is 
 
 kindly false while your eyes are mirrors of truth." 
 
 With a smile she stretched out her hand to the 
 
 121 
 
RUSH-tiGHT STORIES 
 
 Italian, who bowed over it and touched it with his 
 lips. 
 
 "Do not make me suffer, Milady. I desire your 
 happiness so truly and I shall intercede the 
 Heavens for it, you may he sure. I shall strive 
 with those unruly stars," he continued, smiling 
 into her earnest eyes, "that they may look benig- 
 nantly on your destiny. In a week I shall have 
 learned all that I can of the friendly and un- 
 friendly aspects of the planets that govern your 
 future, but always I shall cherish the memory of 
 this hour." 
 
 "I too shall remember you, Signor Galeotti, and 
 your kindness. May the stars hold a happy des- 
 tiny for you," she went on hurriedly, looking up 
 at the Via Solie, her eyes brilliant with unshed 
 tears. "Dear, fabulous creatures of the sky," she 
 cried, waving her hand to them, "be kind to us 
 here below!" and with a flashing smile and another 
 wave of the hand to Signor Galeotti, she was gone, 
 and the astrologer was alone. 
 
 For long he calculated, striving to find some 
 favorable aspects for the two horoscopes. The 
 heavens were implacable. Twilight began to steal 
 into the room and the murmurs of the great city, 
 little by little, were hushed. Pushing back his 
 charts Signor Galeotti rested his head on his arm, 
 122 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 wearied and despairing before the fate he was 
 unable to alter. Had he dared, he would have cast 
 his horoscope with that of the beautiful being whose 
 presence he still felt. Alas! Even in dreams he 
 must not couple his destiny with hers. Gradually 
 his perplexities grew remote and he slept. 
 
 The moment was propitious. Secured from in- 
 terruption or from observation, the twelve majestic 
 constellations that circled the room became ani- 
 mate. The ancient Babylonians assumed their 
 various characters and their voices floated down 
 through the stillness of the great, darkening 
 chamber. 
 
 "Today I usher in the Vernal Equinox," cried 
 the loud, nasal voice of Aries, as, rearing and 
 stamping through the blue vault of the ceiling, he 
 lowered his head with goat-like menace. "The Sun 
 this day entered my territory," he continued arro- 
 gantly, "and I mean to celebrate the event." 
 
 "How?" cried Capricorn, who boasted greater 
 endowments. " 'Tis I who am more powerful, for 
 I am amphibious. With my fish's tail, what can 
 I not do in the watery month of Aquarius, when 
 that 'Chaldean Noah' floods the world from his 
 upturned vial, half drowning even the poor Fishes 
 — not to speak of Earns!" 
 
 "How celebrate?" replied Aries. "By estab- 
 123 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 lishing my supremacy over the spinning world be- 
 low us. I am the 'Leader Ram.' I open the gates 
 of spring; without me none could pass through 
 them." 
 
 "What?" shouted his neighbor, Taurus. "An 
 inferior, a bearded goat to boast of power over 
 mortals! In more ancient Circles than this in 
 which we move, and existing long before ours was 
 thought of, I ushered in,the Spring, and when my 
 golden horns were in the ascendant, there was no 
 talk of Rams or of changes in the Precession of 
 the Equinox. I preceded; that was enough." 
 
 "It might be so, if I believed what you say, but 
 you ask me to swallow a myth too old to be authen- 
 ticated. I am now in the ascendant, which must 
 be evident even to you and I shall interfere in the 
 affairs of men as I have power, and as I think best. 
 You have doubtless heard the conference but just 
 ended, in which two mortals have dared question 
 our decrees. It is impious that, because an ephem- 
 eral creature, whose life is as nothing compared to 
 eternity, desires a sign favorable to her marriage, 
 our immutable courses must be set aside. I shall 
 change nothing, and, furthermore, why should our 
 servant Galeotti intercede with us, as though he 
 questioned our wisdom regarding a destiny so 
 insignificant?" 
 
 124 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 "If your future happiness were concerned, you 
 might likewise seek to ensure it," replied Taurus. 
 "Mortals are defenceless, while the Stars can shoot 
 with terrible execution when their course is de- 
 flected. Let us hold a council to decide what shall 
 be done in the matter of this horoscope." 
 
 "Never!" cried the Earn. "I have supreme 
 power for this month, at least, and I shall not 
 upset well calculated laws to suit a love-sick child 
 of earth." 
 
 "You have a mean spirit, Aries! Nothing 
 noble makes an appeal to you." 
 
 "Beware how you trifle with me," shouted the 
 Earn, with sudden passion. "I know one or two of 
 your little secrets that you'd hate to have get 
 abroad!" 
 
 "What secrets? Come, out with them!" 
 
 "What of that scandalous story the Eomans be- 
 lieved? They called you the 'Constellation of the 
 Little Pigs.' It would take you a long time to 
 live that down, did I decide to speak." 
 
 "It was false and infamous," cried Taurus, 
 "and was due to a mistaken etymology. Who can 
 boast so many stars on his breast as I? The 
 Hyades, the Pleiades and " 
 
 "Yes, yes, that sounds well," cried the Earn, 
 butting and rearing in his impatience, "but what. 
 125 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 about the lost Pleiade? What disgraceful thing 
 happened to her, did she fall?" 
 
 "There are few families of seven who have sus- 
 tained no loss," replied Taurus with dignity. 
 
 "There is one thing I'd like to change in this 
 old Circle of ours!" exclaimed Aries, "and that 
 is your place beside me, you wild Ox! Why not 
 get to work on that problem and leave the silly fate 
 of mortals alone." 
 
 "Let us hold a conference," suggested Libra, 
 "and balance the opinions of those for and against 
 making some trifling changes in our courses, so 
 that this maiden of earth may be happy. I am 
 the latest comer to your circle and your old, ridicu- 
 lous feuds mean nothing to me, but I can weigh the 
 claims of conflicting opinions, none better; for I 
 am the symbol of Justice. Let Leo, Taurus, the 
 Earn and Capricorn, who are the greatest in 
 strength and size, be the council to decide on our 
 action in the matter of this horoscope. Weight set- 
 tles everything, and I'll adjust your differences to 
 a milligram." 
 
 "How public-spirited!" suddenly cried out the 
 hoarse voice of Scorpio. "How dare you leave me 
 out? Why, you are all parvenus compared with 
 me, older than the Zodiac itself! My claws are 
 round you, youthful Libra, so beware! On sum- 
 126 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 mer nights my magnificent tail sweeps the horizon 
 and in the heavens of the Greeks and Chaldeans my 
 sovereignty extended over a sixth of the planetary 
 circle." 
 
 "Well, well," said Libra judicially, "if you can 
 prove these claims, I see no reason why you should 
 not be one of the jury to decide the case."' 
 
 At this, Leo, who had been listening, rose majes- 
 tically and shook his mane. 
 
 "My son, Leo Minor, and myself feel ourselves 
 highly honored to be ranked with Earns, Goats and 
 Bulls. I am the King of Animals and your natural 
 leader. I decide for you all that it is impossible 
 to change our policy for one enamored fool, even 
 if she be ever so beautiful. Galeotti was a traitor 
 to us. Why did he not tell her, once for all, that 
 we were adverse, implacable? Instead, he dallied 
 with the question, deceiving her with hopes that 
 he might arrange things with us. Never with my 
 consent. The Stars are immutable and always 
 have been. Start interfering with the Solar Sys- 
 tem in the least particular, and we are all at sixes 
 and sevens." 
 
 "We were seven, but now we are only six," whis- 
 pered Aries to the Bull, who scorned to notice this 
 second innuendo against a lady's honor; then, 
 louder, to all assembled, the Ram continued: 
 127 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 "Almost my very words, Leo; change nothing, it is 
 without a single precedent. The baleful signs are 
 in the ascendant, let them remain so." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I would like to ask the Great 
 Bear what he thinks of it before we definitely de- 
 cide," replied Leo. "He is a neighbor of mine and 
 one of the largest and most powerful constella- 
 tions." 
 
 * 'A neighbor ? Why, he is forty-five degrees away 
 from you," shouted Capricorn. "You must be 
 mad, and what has he to do with us, pray? A 
 mere outsider. Surely we are powerful enough to 
 settle our own policy without calling in Ursa Major 
 or Minor. We have already one Minor at our 
 council table," he continued, with a meaning scowl 
 at Leo Junior, ' ' that, I think, is sufficient. But stop 
 a moment, all of you, if only to consider how we 
 are sought after and how our laws are consulted 
 and studied. That the frail children of Earth 
 look up to us with fear and worship, we have 
 proved within an hour. Let us make this a case 
 in which to demonstrate our unchanging laws, that 
 may not be suborned or set aside. Mankind is un- 
 reasonable, and every upstart would be born under 
 our happier aspects." 
 
 "Then I trust no one is being born now——" 
 It was the calmi voice of the Virgin which broke 
 128 
 
THE ZODIAC 
 
 in on the vexed council of the animals. "Silence," 
 she continued, advancing into the middle of the 
 Circle, her face sternly set. "There is no better 
 way to forget our own difficulties than by interest- 
 ing ourselves in those of others. Therefore, let us 
 consecrate ourselves to a noble object, not to the 
 punishment of the weak and innocent, but to a pur- 
 pose worthy the stars, to whom men look with 
 love and confidence." 
 
 At these words the Archer, Sagittarius, hurried 
 to her side and, drawing an arrow feathered from 
 a comet's tail, prepared to pierce the first who 
 dared look upon the Virgin, save with reverence. 
 The Twins knelt before her and Aquarius stood 
 ready to quench the smouldering fires of dispute. 
 Silence fell upon the guilty ones; they looked at 
 the Virgin face they loved and slowly bowed their 
 heads in submission. 
 
 "Are we not great enough to change our own 
 laws?" she continued. "If, heretofore, we have 
 turned from this mortal maiden with wrathful 
 faces, can we not shine upon her, if we will? Our 
 greatness cannot be diminished, but her happiness 
 can be. She believed in our laws and benign pow- 
 ers ; she trusted in her young, loving heart that we 
 would be propitious to her marriage and sustain 
 her in her scorn of worldly rank and fortune. Let 
 129 
 
RUSH-LIGH? STORIES 
 
 us agree then, that, while her horoscope may have 
 shown 11s implacable to her happiness, we, our- 
 selves, will make her destiny our peculiar care. 
 And, that no malign influence may darken the brief 
 day of her life, let us erect for her a new horoscope, 
 in whose twelve Houses love shall dwell." 
 
 Suddenly Signor Galeotti stirred in his sleep 
 and awoke. The load upon his breast seemed 
 lighter. On the table, just before him, lay the 
 little painted fan which had so recently rested in 
 her lap, and which, in his abstraction, he had not 
 remarked before. He held it a while, opening and 
 shutting it as she had done, and recalling every 
 word and look of his vanished guest. Then he 
 placed it in a secret fold of his mantle. Looking 
 up at the now friendly stars that circled his walls, 
 Signor Galeotti no longer felt their malign in- 
 fluence. 
 
 "I was mistaken," he murmured, smiling, "they 
 are friendly, after all. ' ' 
 
 130 
 
THE POTTER 
 
THE POTTER 
 
 A FEW miles below Iffley Lock, there is an en- 
 •*■ *■ chanting back-water, which glides impercep- 
 tibly from the river and hides itself beneath a 
 thicket of alders. For half a mile or more one 
 paddles through a green maze, where the startled 
 birds fly from their nests, and where one must stoop 
 to avoid the leafy arches or the arm of some dod- 
 dered oak, mailed in ivy. Suddenly the stream 
 widens, the sky appears and the thicket dwindles, 
 and just before one, in the opening, stands an old 
 Grange, half mill, half habitation. Mellow and pic- 
 turesque it rises from the margin of the stream, a 
 
 veritable house of dreams. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 For a moment I seemed to have made an incur- 
 sion into the realms of enchantment and the gay 
 houseboats and punts of the main river were for- 
 gotten. The half-ruined mill-wheel had ceased to 
 turn these many years. Vines had crept to the 
 133 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 eaves of one gable, which leaned out over the water 
 and seemed to be inhabited. Bent piles supported 
 it, like the insecure crutches on which an aged form 
 leans too heavily. My paddle was still, the boat 
 scarcely moved and I floated as one enclosed in a 
 painted landscape, where every leaf was still and 
 every ripple sank becalmed, to glass the sky and 
 the rosy gables of the mill. A delicious drowsiness 
 lapped me round and I dreamed. 
 
 Just beyond the mill there was a miniature cove, 
 rounded as symmetrically as the curve of a shell. 
 As the tidal waters of the main river rose and fell, 
 so the peaceful, sun-dappled tributary rose and fell. 
 At low tide this strip of land lay revealed, a clean, 
 margin, almost as white as sand, where the rushes 
 circled, rank on rank. It was not a sand bank, 
 however, but one of soft clay, where many little 
 water creatures lived or came to sun themselves. 
 For the Bank was a place of records and often 
 gave the personal news column to the river com- 
 munity. Thus, in the morning, if it was low water, 
 the night's doings, entertainments and, sometimes, 
 its tragedies, were depicted there — for those who 
 had eyes to see. The moorhens alighted upon it 
 for a savory peck of snail, leaving their footprints 
 delicately etched. Frogs hopped over it, marking a 
 record of their awkward floppings for other frogs 
 134 
 
THE POTTER 
 
 to study, while river rats wrote their secret doings 
 there with sharp, tiny claws. Everything that 
 crawled or alighted on the har left its im- 
 press. Often the bare footprints of a child 
 could be distinguished among the other records, 
 for a little boy lived in the gabled end of the 
 Mill. 
 
 And did the Clay feel his private rights vio- 
 lated by this endless passage of life? Alas! He 
 did. He thought himself debased by the stamp of 
 these many personalities who each left a record in 
 the ductile surface. The Clay Bank longed for pri- 
 vacy and he wished he could put up a sign, "No 
 Landing." Only when the tide covered him, and 
 washed away all marks of his trespassers, was he 
 happy; for, even while the river people used him 
 and enjoyed the warm sunny bed he gave them, 
 they scorned and reviled him. 
 
 "Old Mud Hole!" croaked the Frog. "You 
 ought to be thankful to have such a handsomely 
 marked Pater Pamilias bring his family to sun 
 themselves here. My wife is rheumatic and what a 
 place for her to take treatments, to lie half buried 
 in the warm mud and loosen the joints of her legs 
 that once led me such a chase, and now are bent 
 to follow me with endless suspicion ! What if I do 
 leave my mark here, who has a better right? The 
 135 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 squatters' claim has been acknowledged for ages 
 and it is mine by every law." 
 
 The Clay hated the ugly frogs, but he was power- 
 less to expel them. Snails also trespassed and were 
 to be seen there in all sorts of deshabille, sprawl- 
 ing half in, half out of their shells, with no sense 
 of modesty or reserve. 
 
 "If you don't like us," they would reply to his 
 remonstrances, "why do you record our visits and 
 the manner of creatures we are ? You make your- 
 self indispensable to us, and we often come here 
 just to see what svelte graceful lines we have. If 
 you were hard and stony, do you suppose we would 
 bother our heads about you?" 
 
 "Woe is me!" cried the voice of the impotent 
 Clay, "it is my fatal weakness that I am so im- 
 pressionable. The vilest things can leave their 
 mark upon me, and dare to call me 'Mud'! But 
 there is another, and beautiful name for my plastic 
 substance that I have heard with delight. The 
 French call me ArgUe and dignify me by uses and 
 processes of which I have heard dimly. Each day I 
 pray to the great Potter that some beautiful human 
 form may pass over me and that I may record its 
 grace. It cannot be that the rare adaptability I 
 possess is destined for no higher purpose than to 
 note the coming and going of this river canaille. 
 136 
 
THE POTTER 
 
 The only lovely pictures I have recorded are those 
 of the multiform leaves that fall upon me in the 
 autumn, some water lily washed ashore by the tides, 
 or, best of all, the footprints of the little Boy who 
 comes to play here and bathe in the river on sunny 
 mornings. The birds have told me that he is the 
 son of a famous artist, who, in summer, dwells in 
 the ancient Mill-house with his wife and son. The 
 young Mother and child are inseparable and, when 
 the tide is high and they float above me in their 
 boat, I can see their faces framed in the blue 
 waters. The Boy is fair and his hair floats about 
 his head like an aureole which the sun burnishes. 
 One day, I remember, he had been sailing his toy 
 boat and, when he left me, I found the outline of 
 his little hand upon my surface. But the world 
 of the Kiver holds me in contempt. I am only good 
 for a drying ground, and the great stupid swans 
 come here to make their toilet and scatter their 
 feathers about. I am a place for boats to drag 
 their keels upon in landing, and, at high tide, a 
 sheltered basin for the schools of young fishes who 
 are brought here to learn gnat-catching, diving and 
 fin practice. Even when a chance object of beauty 
 comes near enough so that I can make a note of 
 the wonderful event, the tide rises and washes all 
 away. Alas! for what am I good, with my weak, 
 137 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 sensitive nature? Only the birds bring me lasting 
 happiness, for they are always calling me by my 
 other, lovelier name — 'Argile, Argile!' and the 
 sound mounts to the sky like the larks themselves. 
 If man is made of clay and if the great Potter 
 made man in His image, am I not already enno- 
 bled? Ah me! I know not. I am as one in bond- 
 age, my destiny is not yet shaped." 
 
 One day, toward the end of summer, the lark 
 told the listening Bank that the golden-haired Boy 
 would come no more to play by the River — no more 
 leave the imprint of his dancing feet in the heart 
 of the Clay. He would sail his little boat no 
 longer, nor come again to cast his futile line in the 
 shallows, where the fishes played secure. The Boy 
 was dead, and one sad morning they carried his 
 little body away from the gabled Mill-house and he 
 was seen no more. 
 
 Spring came again, and in the long twilight the 
 nightingales sang songs of rapture and lament; 
 the reeds flowered by the Eiver and violets and 
 primroses scented the woods. And yet, in all the 
 beauty of reviving life, the child returned no more. 
 Only his spirit dwelt in the haunts his innocent 
 soul had loved. The River murmured his name 
 138 
 
THE POTTER 
 
 in passing, and the Bank, where he had played, 
 kept his image in its depths. For nothing really 
 dies, and to live as a memory is often to exist more 
 truly than when our feet pressed the sunny fields 
 of earth. And so the boy lived in the hearts of his 
 parents. 
 
 As summer multiplied the leaves on the great 
 oaks that surrounded the Mill, the bereaved ones 
 returned, like homing birds, to the empty nest, and 
 the Bank heard their voices in the still night, talk- 
 ing of their child. They revisited each of his 
 haunts and the Mother pointed out his favorite 
 playground. It lay beyond the landing on a little 
 promontory from which he sailed his boat and 
 threw sticks to his adoring spaniel who brought 
 them back to him until seventy times seven. They 
 paused by the Bank, where the Boy loved to paddle, 
 where he had run races with his shadow and had 
 fed the swans, so formidable in stature, so insatia- 
 ble in their greed. 
 
 One morning the child's Father came to the Bank 
 and filled a great basket with the soft moist clay 
 which he carried away to a place back of the Mill, 
 half shed, half studio, where ghostly forms stood 
 about in strange postures, statuesque and pale. 
 Some were covered with draperies, damp, as though 
 their bodies had been rescued from drowning, while 
 139 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 others were nude, and of heroic proportions. At 
 sight of these spectres the Clay grew cold and 
 longed for the sun, and for his despised companions 
 of the River. But the great Potter had touched 
 him at last, and began, forthwith, to mould and 
 harden him, shaping, beautifying and inspiring the 
 inert mass. As the summer waned, all silently and 
 mysteriously the Clay was made in the image of 
 man. And when Autumn came the River saw a 
 strange procession issue from the Mill-house, and 
 descend the path with slow steps, bearing in their 
 arms an image of the Boy, in substance modeled 
 from the despised clay, now ennobled by the genius 
 of the sculptor. The statue had been exquisitely 
 conceived ; the young figure, partly nude, was seen 
 standing with hair blown back, arms outstretched 
 and face intent upon the passing life of the 
 River. 
 
 They placed it at the end of the Bank on the 
 wooded promontory that breasted the stream, where 
 the Boy had loved to play. The laurel bushes made 
 a dark background for his form, and the River, 
 flowing at his feet, seemed to murmur the brief 
 story of his life. And there, upon his pedestal, 
 he may still be seen, and when the larks return with 
 each succeeding spring, they soar above the image 
 and send down a shower of sweet notes. " Argile! 
 140 
 
THE POTTER 
 
 Argile!" they sing, and the Clay rejoices with a 
 great joy, for he and the beautiful image of the 
 Child are one. 
 
 141 
 
THE SEA-HORSES 
 
THE SEA-HORSES 
 
 /^\N a rocky island of the North Sea — an island 
 ^"^ wrapped in mist and swept by stormy tides — 
 this legend has been told at nursery firesides for 
 generations. Always the children of Shetland have 
 believed it to be true, and have loved their 
 little ponies better for the tragic tale of Hol- 
 land. 
 
 Long ago, in a cavern of the cliffs, lived this same 
 Rolland who, with others like himself, spent his 
 days in carrying on his back the children of the 
 neighboring seaport, and galloping them over the 
 level sands from which the cliffs rose to the sky. 
 In summer their master hired the ponies out, for 
 then holiday children came from the mainland to 
 play on the sand, to catch the star fish imprisoned 
 in the pools of the rocks, or, best of all, to ride the 
 shaggy ponies up and down the beach. Their 
 course was the crescent shore of the bay, and the 
 roofs of the village clambered half way up the 
 145 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 cliffs to see how fleet and brave they were — at least 
 the ponies thought so. This crescent lay between 
 two horns of rock that ran far out to sea, and 
 which the receding tides left bare. Past these no 
 child nor pony dared to ride. Outside the great 
 horns was fairy-land, and within the silver cup of 
 the bay they played and dreamed of an enchanted 
 world beyond. 
 
 Sometimes petted, sometimes tormented, the ador- 
 able ponies of the island learned to bear their 
 human burdens with philosophy and never lost their 
 dignity by yielding to the wishes of their infant 
 riders. They were well trained and inured to their 
 duties, all save Holland who, with his companions, 
 was forced to submit to the lot of a beast of bur- 
 den. How he wearied of his daily courses over the 
 sands ! How far above his lowly duties soared his 
 ambition! Nevertheless, no one divined in him a 
 loftier aim than to stand unhired while his com- 
 panions galloped, to eat whenever he could, or 
 assert his unquestionable right to turn tail before 
 the full course down the bay was run. But he was 
 ambitious and he had dreams, inspired, no doubt, 
 by the wild, romantic region where his youth was 
 passed — roaming the downs at the head of the 
 great cliffs, or in the echoing caverns of the rocks 
 where, affrighted, he listened to the thunder of the 
 146 
 
THE SEA-HORSES 
 
 surf which seemed to shout to him of heroic deeds 
 and fairy adventure. Above all, he loved to hear 
 the waters sing of the white and tireless sea-horses 
 whom he sometimes saw riding upon the waves, 
 their manes flying as the wind whipped them in 
 herds across the rocky horns of the bay, and far 
 out to the sea's rim. Often, as he stood upon some 
 solitary headland, he would neigh to them, longing 
 to receive a returning salute or some sign of their 
 comradeship. Alas ! the sea-horses heeded him not ; 
 only the wild voices of the ocean mingled with the 
 wind, while the enchanted horses rose and sank 
 unmindful of their little neophyte who, with 
 streaming mane and dreamy eyes, watched the swift 
 coursers of the deep. 
 
 How passionately he longed to join them, to 
 mount with them the vast surges of the ocean and 
 leave forever the uneventful life of the ponies on 
 the beach ! But whenever he thought of venturing 
 out to those great, riderless steeds, the courage of 
 little Holland ebbed with the tide, and each night 
 he was glad that the door of his cavernous stable 
 was locked against the fairy world that beckoned 
 him. 
 
 Alas! How could he join them; how make him- 
 self free and powerful as they? At the approach 
 of storm the sea called him more imperiously, for 
 147 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 then the white herds ran races with the wind, and 
 came far inland over the reefs. 
 
 But a day dawned when, instead of being 
 mounted by one of the tiresome children he knew 
 so well, an unknown maiden came to the master of 
 the ponies to engage Rolland for a long course. 
 Her name was Isolda, and her eyes were as blue 
 as the distant mirage and more full of mystery. 
 Long hair, like tawny seaweed, floated to her knees, 
 and she gently caressed little Rolland as she took 
 his bridle in her hand and prepared to mount him. 
 She whispered but a word in his ear and, like the 
 wind, he flew with her to the farthest confines of the 
 shore where the rocks shut in the bay. There they 
 found themselves alone, save for the sea gulls who, 
 wheeling overhead, seemed to welcome them to the 
 desolate sands where sea foam blew, and the wind 
 trumpeted. 
 
 There Isolda dismounted and, with her arms 
 round Rolland 's shaggy neck, embraced him and 
 led him toward the promontory that the ebb-tide 
 had left bare. Bravely they climbed along the 
 rocks, tasting the brine mist on their lips, and 
 deafened by the waves; farther and farther they 
 ventured until the spray enveloped them and the 
 land seemed miles behind. Finally Isolda stopped, 
 and they turned for a last look landward. To Rol- 
 148 
 
TEE SEA-HORSES 
 
 land it was a tragic moment; like one in a dream 
 he had followed unresisting, but now Isolda's cheek 
 was blanched as she stood above the boiling caul- 
 dron of the sea. Wildly she seemed to scan each 
 wave for some expected sign, invisible to human 
 sight. Eolland trembled with fear and rolled his 
 frenzied eyes toward the now beloved shore and 
 then to the tumult of the waters. He neighed, as 
 the waves broke over his hoofs, bringing nearer and 
 nearer the terrible sea horses. He longed, then, to 
 return to his cavern, but his bridle was held, and he 
 dared not quit his precarious foothold on the rocks. 
 At that moment Isolda, who ceased not to watch the 
 waters, uttered a loud cry, and stretching out her 
 arms shouted as though to the winds: "It is Isolda, 
 I have come back. Tell the sea-horses I have kept 
 my vow; little Eolland is with me and is prepared 
 to join them at last." Then, turning to Eolland, 
 who had seen no one in the waters, she said more 
 gently: 
 
 "Fear nothing, little friend, for here, at the 
 parting of earth and sea, you shall make your own 
 choice and know all that I can tell you. In me, dear 
 Eolland, you see no child of the isle that stretches 
 far behind us. No hearth there knows me, no cradle 
 of earth has rocked me ; only have I lain in the sea 
 nets that the mermaids stretch to rock the baby 
 149 
 
RUSH-LIGBT STORIES 
 
 mermaids when the sea is calm, and where they 
 sing to them. My home is in the caves of the deep 
 to which I now return. Watch closely and you will 
 see the mermaids rise to smile and beckon you. 
 Long ago, on one of my first visits to the island 
 that I love, and where in summer we sit upon the 
 rocks and sing to the children of earth, I saw you, 
 I heard you call to the sea-horses, I heard you 
 prayer to join them and explore our beautiful sub- 
 terranean world. Prom that hour I loved you and 
 determined to rescue you, and help you realize your 
 noble arid unique ambition. Today I gained per- 
 mission to seek once more the shores of earth, that 
 I might find you and guide you to the herds of 
 Father Neptune, who waits for us. Come then 
 with me, brave Eolland, and bid defiance to your 
 terror of the deep." 
 
 In the eyes of Eolland a tear welled up and fell. 
 "Shall I be near you always, lovely Isolda? Will 
 you ride upon my back when I shall have left for- 
 ever the hills of Shetland? Without your guidance 
 I shall be lost among the great waves, and in their 
 thousand valleys how shall you find me? Never 
 before have the sea-horses looked so fierce, so 
 wild." 
 
 "Be comforted," replied Isolda tenderly, "you 
 shall be my own little sea-horse, and together we 
 150 
 
THE SEA-HORSES 
 
 will ride the waves as fearlessly as the greatest of 
 the herd we see about us." 
 
 "Alas ! shall I always be tiny as now?" said Rol- 
 land wistfully. "I do so long to be big and 
 strong." 
 
 "Perhaps you may be, but that I cannot tell; 
 only I know that you will be more beloved and 
 more renowned than they. Your act will make you 
 a hero — one who has given up earth for a great 
 ideal. Who knows but the sea-horses will make 
 you their king?" 
 
 At these thrilling words Rolland faltered no 
 longer, but bowed his furry head in sign of willing- 
 ness to go forward, and thus, following the intrepid 
 steps of Isolda, he quitted the shores of his home 
 and abandoned himself heroically to the great 
 waves. 
 
 But this was long ago, and the tide has ebbed 
 and flowed for years unnumbered since the day of 
 their flight. None has ever seen them, and they 
 return no more, but on the wild coast of the Shet- 
 land Isles their names are legendary, and mingle 
 with the voices of the winds and waves that moan 
 in the caverns of the rocks. 
 
 151 
 
ABDHIL RAHMAK 
 
ABDHIL KAHMAN 
 
 /^\N the vast steps or ramps of the Himalayas, 
 ^^ Abdhil Rahman was born. His native village, 
 with its scattered earth huts, resembled a colony 
 of ant hills in a desert of sand. Very early in the 
 flight of his years his parents died and the accident 
 of his frail existence seemed not more important 
 than that of a grain of sand which the wind caught 
 up and carried past the door of his dwelling. But 
 some spark of Promethean fire, kindling the slender 
 wick of his life, began to manifest itself with his 
 first consciousness. To him the mountains were 
 holy, calling into being all the poetry and imagina- 
 tion of his nature. Like priests of Sakya Muni, 
 they seemed to spend their lives in an ascent, leav- 
 ing the warm, tree-shaded valleys to attain the first 
 slopes, or novitiate lands, on their far journey. 
 Plateau after plateau they left behind them in their 
 mighty procession, stopping here and there to erect 
 a snow-clad tent, but never satisfied until they had 
 155 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 piled themselves above the highest clouds. Then, in- 
 deed, the mountains rested, their snowy heads and 
 shoulders raised aloft ; the first on earth to see the 
 rising sun and the last to catch its rose-red fire on 
 their eternal snows. A great solitude surrounded 
 them, where, in the glittering alphabet of the stars, 
 they read the mysteries of Nirvana. 
 
 Through his childhood Abdhil Rahman believed 
 that the mountains were great Buddhas, or lamas, 
 who had attained their immortality. And, even 
 when he outgrew this faith, he conceived a romantic 
 love for them that consoled his lonely heart and 
 reconciled him to the loss of human relations. Ow- 
 ing to the solitary circumstances of his life, he had 
 early acquired a habit of contemplation and he 
 would sit for hours in the door-way of his earth 
 dwelling wafting his innocent soul on its flight to 
 the great white Himalayas. 
 
 Abdhil was a strange child; he loved to wander 
 whole days by himself, following the beautiful val- 
 leys far upward, until their forests of ilex and 
 deodars ended in sterile tracts through which the 
 torrents rushed down from the snows. In these 
 solitary journeys he sometimes lost all conscious- 
 ness of his surroundings and his spirit would es- 
 cape to new worlds, borne on the bright images of 
 his imagination. Hours would pass thus without 
 156 
 
ABDHIL RAHMAN 
 
 knowledge of the lapse of time. Once, when he 
 heard a nightingale singing in the woods at dusk, 
 he stopped to listen — and, on turning to leave the 
 forest, it was dawn. 
 
 "When Abdhil Rahman was fifteen years of age, 
 a venerable lama, bound on a pilgrimage to some 
 mountain shrine near Chineni, passed through the 
 hamlet, and, seeing the boy, noted something re- 
 markable in his face. The traveler took shelter 
 with him for the night and permitted Abdhil to 
 minister to him, and to ask him many questions. 
 It was the great moment in the life of the young 
 visionary. His guest, Benzories, told him more 
 wonderful things than he had ever dreamed of, 
 teaching him the elements of religion from the writ- 
 ings of the Upanishads, and revealing to the eager 
 soul of the boy the impersonal immortality to be 
 attained in Nirvana. There his most "roseate de- 
 sire would be but to exist as an indistinguishable 
 particle of the sunset clouds and vanish invisible as 
 they in the starry stillness of space." 
 
 The mind of Abdhil drank in truth as the thirsty 
 sand the rain, and, seeing his intelligence glow in 
 ready response to his words, the lama instructed 
 him further in the three great stages of man's de- 
 velopment : his growth and adolescence, his absorp- 
 tion of all life and its experiences, and, in the final 
 157 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 stage, the abnegation of self and the dedication of 
 every personal desire to the service of mankind. In 
 this last stage was attained the greatest holiness 
 possible to man, already foreshadowing the Nirvana 
 of the soul. 
 
 While they talked, the lama and the child saw 
 the night pass over their heads and the bright con- 
 stellations sink, one by one. In the mysterious dis- 
 tance the mountains rose, eternal witnesses to the 
 ephermeral episode of man's life — a grain of sand 
 on the highway of truth. 
 
 "May I go with you on your pilgrimage to Chi- 
 neni, Holy One?" said Abdhil, "may I be your 
 chela and learn more wisdom day by day? My 
 whole life has changed with your coming and I feel 
 that I must know all things, see the world and ac- 
 quire merit by some act of singular devotion." 
 
 The lama was an old man and very lonely. He 
 smiled tenderly as the boy, in his pleading, laid his 
 hand on his yellow robe, as though to draw virtue 
 from its folds. 
 
 "You shall, indeed, come with me, my child, but 
 we will be gone many days ; the journey will be full 
 of hardships as we ascend higher and higher among 
 the mountains. But I will teach you all you wish 
 to learn and, when you return to your dwelling here 
 in Sopore, and to your neighbors, you must reveal 
 158 
 
ABDHIL RAHMAN 
 
 to them as much truth as they can receive. To 
 teach the way of life to others is to follow in the 
 footsteps of the Lord Buddha himself. Then, when 
 I have grown too old for further pilgrimages, you 
 may, perhaps, take up the great quest of my life ; 
 for now I know that I must die without accomplish- 
 ing it and I would pass on the hope of its blessed- 
 ness to you — if, indeed, you be worthy as you seem. 
 For only those who have purified themselves by 
 prayer and lofty thought, who have mastered all 
 passion and who hold all life sacred, are worthy to 
 make this pilgrimage. When we have been together 
 for a season, my chela," continued the priest, lay- 
 ing his hand benignly on the upturned brow of Abd- 
 hil Eahman, "I shall know if you are, in truth, my 
 successor." 
 
 Silence fell for a moment, and then Abdhil spoke 
 again. ' ' Can you not tell me, Holy One, for what 
 you search? If it has taken you all your life to 
 find, and you are still seeking^ surely I cannot begin 
 too soon, if I would attain to what you have 
 missed." The heart of the old man was touched 
 by the ingenious ardor of the lad and he loved him. 
 
 "It is true, my chela, that you will need time for 
 
 this quest; but, more than days or years, you will 
 
 need holiness and patience. Often I think that my 
 
 life has been lacking in the attainment of that 
 
 159 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 sanctity which alone makes me worthy, for to a few 
 only has it been given to find what I seek, and those 
 so blessed have long since left this earth. Some- 
 where, my child, hidden in the gigantic folds of the 
 hills, there is a temple. It stands in a beautiful 
 valley where the feet of Buddha once pressed the 
 dust of earth. On all sides rise the peaks of the 
 Himalayas and, in the midst, is the shrine I seek. 
 Bound the walls, in niches carved in stone, stand 
 the statues of the gods. When a great, pure soul 
 finds them and enters the temple, they return to 
 life and hold communion with him and teach him 
 divine truths. And, when they have imparted all 
 the glory and the mystery of the Bodhisat, the pil- 
 grim gladly relinquishes his earthly tenement and 
 sets forth on the soul's immortal journey." 
 
 Silence followed the last words of the lama. 
 Then, rising suddenly to his feet, Abdhil Rahman 
 extended bis arms and, looking up to the star 
 swarms in the summer sky, cried aloud: "Great 
 Spirit of Life! Let me live as this holy man has 
 lived. Let me practise all the virtues of purity and 
 love which he has taught me this night. And I here 
 vow to consecrate my youth, my life, my strength 
 to the quest and to search for the hidden temple 
 until my last breath is spent!" 
 
 He remained standing, lost in one of the ecstatic 
 160 
 
ABBHIL RAHMAN 
 
 moments that his young soul experienced. And 
 
 the lama, looking upon the beauty of his upturned 
 
 face, knew that he had found his successor. 
 • ••»#» 
 
 Along the mountain trail to Rabhinoth, an old 
 man was toiling, staff in hand. He wore the tawny 
 robe of the Buddhist priest and beneath the dome 
 of his turban dwelt the spirit of all that was great 
 and beautiful in the religion of Asia. From time 
 to time he stopped to rest and tell his rosary, which 
 hung from his neck, its wooden beads worn by a 
 thousand prayers. The eyes of the pilgrim had the 
 yearning, tragic look of a soul long deprived of 
 communion with mankind, and who had gazed for 
 a life time on the great Himalayas. Their snows 
 had fallen upon him, their dawns had wakened him 
 to days of unending effort. Treading the inter- 
 minable forests, climbing the great spurs of the 
 mountains, everywhere he was sustained by an im- 
 perishable vision, and he worshipped Guatama, 
 praying always to be worthy the boon he asked. 
 
 Spring had come to India, the air was mild, and 
 the sun stayed long in the valleys. Day by day the 
 old lama journeyed on, and each morning, before 
 setting forth on his pilgrimage, he drew his day's 
 chart on the bare ground with the point of his 
 heavy iron pen-case, the Indian priests' only wea- 
 161 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 pon. Thus he marked the course to be pursued and 
 which his life-long knowledge of the mountains en- 
 abled him to follow, always seeking new tracts and 
 never retracing the old. But the lama's footsteps 
 had grown slower and more laborious as the years 
 piled their burden upon him. When he was young 
 his day's chart had covered a score of miles, now it 
 had dwindled to less than half that amount, and 
 still he journeyed on, sustained by an inspired 
 hope. 
 
 Half way up the long ascent to Rabhinoth, the 
 traveler stopped, perplexed. For almost the first 
 time in his endless journeying he was tempted to 
 relinquish the march as too great for his strength. 
 A strange unwillingness to go further assailed him, 
 like some bodily distress, and he seated himself on 
 the stones by the wayside to fight this new tempta- 
 tion, this devil which lay in wait to overthrow him 
 in his age and lassitude. But was it a devil? Might 
 he not forsake the narrow, toilsome path and rest 
 his feet in the glade that opened just before him, 
 grass-grown and wooded with ilex and blossoming 
 rhododendron ? He rose and prayed for a moment ; 
 then, deliberately abandoning the mountain path, 
 he entered the flowery vale and walked on with 
 rapid steps. Soon the narrow way opened out 
 into a valley, beautiful and wild as any that lay 
 162 
 
ABDHIL RAHMAN 
 
 hidden in this paradise of India. The lama's heart 
 beat, the blood rose to his pulses, and he felt an 
 unwonted joy, a sense of breathless haste which 
 made him run like a young man. On and on he 
 pressed until twilight fell in the valley, and still 
 he knew no weariness and no discouragement. Sud- 
 denly a turn in the path revealed to his eyes the 
 walls of an ancient temple, circular in form and 
 set in the midst of the vale. The door of the shrine 
 was open and at first sight the lama did not per- 
 ceive it to be a ruin, so perfectly had the fagade 
 been preserved. A dome, still delicately poised as 
 a bubble, crowned the temple and reflected the sun- 
 set hues of the upper sky. On either side of the 
 valley groves of deodar, the sacred tree of India, 
 rose rank on rank, until their summits caught the 
 sunlight. Above towered the domes and minarets 
 of the Himalayas, their snows on fire in the burn- 
 ing rose of sunset, which flamed there long after 
 night had fallen in the mountain gorges. 
 
 Before this ineffable scene the lama stood rapt in 
 contemplation. The years of his quest were for- 
 gotten ; age was lifted from him like the heavy pack 
 of the traveler and he stood free at last to gaze upon 
 the illumined sky. The voice of Benzories sounded 
 again in his ears, telling him of the temple which 
 now arose before his sight, and which the gods had 
 163 
 
RVSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 reserved for the end of his long pilgrimage. Light 
 flooded his being; the veil of his mortal life seemed 
 suddenly parted and he beheld the divine tomorrow 
 of the soul. He was a priest no longer, — rather he 
 was as one who had never been on earth, for every 
 thought, every aspiration was new. 
 
 Eeverently approaching the shrine, he entered 
 with a beating heart. At last he would see the 
 gods whom he had sought so long. The gathering 
 shadows had fallen within the rotunda and it was 
 a moment before he eould distinguish anything. 
 Then, as his vision cleared, he beheld with amaze- 
 ment that the niches round the walls were empty, 
 their pedestals deserted. Only the footprints of 
 the gods remained, marked in the stones. They 
 had ascended to mingle their souls as indistinguish- 
 able particles in the glory of Nirvana. To the lama, 
 the proof of their immortality was more miracu- 
 lously revealed in their absence than had they re- 
 mained to greet him — the latest comer. 
 
 His quest was ended; and, falling to his knees 
 amid the empty shrines of the gods, the pure soul 
 of Abdhil Eahman left its earthly tabernacle and 
 followed them. 
 
 164 
 
THE CLOCK OF ST. GUDULE 
 
THE CLOCK OF SAINT GUDULE 
 
 "IT* ROM the narrow streets of the city little can 
 ■*■ be seen of the clock of Saint Gudule. Curi- 
 ous eaves hide it from view — eaves that for cen- 
 turies have whispered secrets to their opposite 
 neighbors and, in their close approach, leave but 
 a strip of sky between. Only the sound of chimes, 
 floating downward, reveals the presence of the 
 clock that, high in clouds and mists, looks down 
 from the Cathedral belfry. Nevertheless it is a 
 rare example of medieval art and, among its many 
 strange devices, the carved hands are the most curi- 
 ous. That which marks the hours is wrought in 
 the form of a Burgomaster of the middle ages, 
 while the minute hand represents a woman of the 
 same period, but of taller, slimmer stature. Too 
 far above the city for their forms to be distin- 
 guishable, this ancient couple have, notwithstand- 
 ing, carried on their busy, important lives through 
 the centuries, and have felt themselves to be the 
 167 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 very soul of the clock. But time-servers have 
 moments of relaxation when their duties are less 
 closely watched, and when they can take their ease ; 
 for, to tell the truth, they ticked more slowly on 
 days of mourning and affliction in the town below. 
 It was then that they paused to look over the far 
 country which absorbed its life and beauty from 
 the canals flowing seaward, or to the labyrinth of 
 roofs and gothic towers which rose beyond the 
 Cathedral close. Ordinarily, however, the old 
 couple of the clock were faithful to their duty of 
 marking the hours, and of announcing to the world 
 the eternal flight of time. They solemnly believed 
 that the length of the days was regulated by their 
 journey round the dial, and that, without their 
 ceaseless revolutions, Time itself would stop. This 
 naive belief made them take themselves very seri- 
 ously, and they often conversed together of their 
 exalted mission. But the portly Burgomaster, 
 whom his wife called Master Hour, considered his 
 duty the only essential one; while his wife circled 
 round him, the merest satellite in the scheme of 
 things. Without doubt the world, and himself in- 
 cluded, could manage perfectly well without her 
 rapid journeys round the dial, marked by num- 
 bers which they called their twelve children. 
 It would avail nothing to tell how the wife of 
 168 
 
THE CLOCK OF ST. GUDULE 
 
 Master Hour felt herself maligned by this arrogant 
 and senseless opinion, and how they quarreled 
 about it every time they passed each other on the 
 dial, while, far below, the world heard only the slow 
 striking of the hours, like waves of angelic sound 
 descending from the clouds. 
 
 Thus would the ancient Burgomaster begin his 
 hourly recriminations: 
 
 "Here you are again, Minute Wife, always just 
 at my heels, always pushing past me without a 
 'by your leave,' or without arriving anywhere 
 for your bustle. I could mark the hours quite as 
 well were you" never to move again, and better, too. 
 You do not make more time than I, despite your 
 hurry. Look at me ; mark with what leisurely dig- 
 nity I move round the dial, stopping a moment to 
 strike each hour. I make one journey in the day 
 and accomplish in that round what you do in 
 a dozen revolutions. You can mark the minutes, 
 but that is absolutely unessential. What good is a 
 minute of time, can you tell me ? It is too short to 
 notice, and yet you show your stupidity by ticking 
 for each one. They can't be important, for who 
 ever heard of ringing the minutes; but when the 
 hour arrives, or when I arrive, which amounts to 
 the same thing, I ring the chimes loudly, exactly, 
 and that is all which concerns the people below. 
 169 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 They listen and wait for me to strike, and I govern 
 them like an absolute king. But who, in heaven's 
 name, heeds your incessant tick-tack? You lose 
 all authority by vain repetition, and it bores me to 
 see you for ever at work and for ever accomplish- 
 ing nothing," 
 
 Before the end of such tirades, the poor Minute 
 Wife would have traveled far enough to be out of 
 hearing of his strident, monotonous voice, and over 
 the great, silent dial she could pursue her way in 
 peace; for, after long experience of such persecu- 
 tions, she had found all argument to be vain, — 
 flight was her only refuge. 
 
 One day, however, the busy wife fell ill, some 
 derangement had occurred in the movement and 
 the minute hand was silent — her slender, restless 
 form reposed at last. For a time this was a great 
 relief to Master Hour, and he rejoiced in the silence 
 and immobility of his companion, who had finally 
 listened to reason. Nevertheless, when some time 
 had passed and he prepared to strike the hour, he 
 found, to his dismay, that he had not stirred on the 
 dial ; he was paralyzed and could not strike. What 
 had happened — was the world to end thus? What 
 monstrous condition of affairs was to blame for his 
 inability to move, as always? Had their twelve 
 children forgotten to answer the eternal roll-call, 
 170 
 
THE CLOCK OF ST. GUDULE 
 
 or had Father Time at last dwindled into the grave? 
 Terrified, he now strove to ring the bells, but the 
 celestial, melancholy chimes were mute and soon 
 Master Hour ceased his fruitless efforts. 
 
 Presently the dwellers in the ancient city, accus- 
 tomed for a life time to the Cathedral chimes, real- 
 ized that some catastrophe had occurred, and when 
 the bells were silent for a week, all the town was 
 troubled. At last a master clock-maker, who under- 
 stood the works of ancient timepieces, was sum- 
 moned with his apprentices. They mounted the 
 belfry where they set to work with such success 
 that, in a few days, the Minute "Wife resumed her 
 despised duties and Time went on as before. But, 
 while engaged at their task in the mighty works, 
 the clock-makers had talked of a remarkable condi- 
 tion of affairs which Master Hour heard with dis- 
 may. They declared that when his wife was inca- 
 pacitated and ceased her work, the clock could no 
 longer chime the hours; he himself was rendered 
 powerless and, solely because of her passing indispo- 
 sition, the hand of Time was stilled. Here was a 
 painful revelation for the Master of the Hours! 
 His outraged egoism would not, at first, admit its 
 truth, and many days passed before his indignation 
 subsided. He felt himself humiliated and ag- 
 grieved, and he brooded long over the indignity of 
 171 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 being dependent upon a Minute Wife. But he 
 scolded her no more ; while she, with rare magnani- 
 mity, vaunted not her new importance, but busily 
 ticked out her day as though no great event had 
 happened. 
 
 Little by little her former tyrant felt his heart 
 soften, and, in the stirring of this new emotion, he 
 almost forgot once or twice to strike the hours. He 
 trembled before a weakness that invaded his Bur- 
 gomaster's heart like an insidious foe whom yet he 
 welcomed, and he remembered with a new tender- 
 ness the long, revolving years they had passed to- 
 gether. "Why had he become alienated from his 
 Minute Wife, and why should they continue at 
 cross-purposes when the days and years were theirs 
 to create ? How patient she had been with him, con- 
 sidering the petulance and vivacity of her nature, 
 never late, never missing an appointment. Yet, 
 with all this, he hoped she had been too ill to heed 
 the remarks of the Clockmakers. 
 
 Weeks passed thus, and it was Christmas Eve be- 
 fore Master Hour could bring himself to break 
 the long silence between them. His method was di- 
 rect and naive. 
 
 "I have done you wrong, dear Minute, in despis- 
 ing your character and usefulness. My great posi- 
 tion has made me intolerant. Forgive me now, and 
 172 
 
THE CLOCK OF ST. GUDULE 
 
 let the future find us more harmonious. Our union 
 is indissoluble and what is one hand without its 
 mate? Surely our aims should be alike. Let us 
 go back to the days when our children, the Hours, 
 were young, and when they seemed so desirable to 
 us." 
 
 Profoundly happy and astonished, the Minute 
 Wife replied: "My dear, I feel as you do, in fact I 
 always have, despite our disagreements, and I par- 
 don you freely your past mistakes. You reckoned 
 life entirely from your own credit account; now, 
 at last, you have added mine and you find the an- 
 swer different, the sum greater. I rejoiced when 
 I heard the Clockmakers explain the importance of 
 my part in our daily life and that, without my as- 
 sistance, you could not make the days and hours 
 pass. This gives a new meaning to my monotonous 
 task and now, in the joy of my new dignity, I want 
 to make each Minute happier. I still believe you 
 to be stronger than I and that your hand, striking 
 the bells, commands a vaster, nobler music than I 
 can evoke. Therefore, I will follow you as always, 
 but with the understanding that each of us shall 
 have an equal share in making Time." 
 
 "You speak wisely, dear Minute, and, because 
 you have accepted your new honors modestly and 
 have left me in peace to think things over, I have 
 173 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 actually come to the conclusion, that the Clock- 
 makers were right, for once in their lives, and that 
 I could not get on without you. The Hours, de- 
 prived of our meeting, would lose all charm. To- 
 gether we evoke the music hidden in the bells, while, 
 far below, men and women pause to listen. Their 
 thoughts ascend to the revolving Hours that, day 
 by day, seem to follow one another more swiftly on 
 the great dial, and they hasten to get their de- 
 sires and their work accomplished. They resolve to 
 live more fully and find that illusive treasure called 
 happiness, or love. If I am the Master of the Hours 
 and rule men by my voice, you speed the passing 
 Minutes and make the world forget their irrevocable 
 flight." 
 
 At that instant the reunited couple met, and 
 joined hands on the shadowy dial. 
 
 "Midnight is on the stroke," said the Minute 
 Wife, "and Christmas dawns. All the world below 
 is in love and charity as we are now, dear Hour. 
 Let us ring the chimes as never before, together, 
 this time, you and I. Strike softly, at first, to wake 
 the town and mingle with the dreams of those who 
 sleep, then more loudly, more joyously we will pro- 
 claim a better time for all!" 
 
 174 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE RIVER 
 
THE LEGEND OP THE RIVER 
 
 T IFE is an action, not a thought," said the 
 -'-' River as he glided on between the banks. 
 "Life is motion; life is energy, and must find its 
 outlet in the great sea. Without a tidal recurrence, 
 in which I feel the pulse of the ocean to my very 
 source, should I be the great historic river that I 
 am? Not great in size, perhaps; indeed, it is my 
 charm that I am both great and small. Here, where 
 I rest in the sun, hardly moving in my narrow bed, 
 I can feel the warmth and fertility of the earth 
 flow into my veins and, for a moment, I am content 
 to lie dreaming in a back-water. But come with me 
 and I will show you, round the next bend, where 
 the grove hides my widening pathway, how I race. 
 I sweep past gaily decorated houseboats ; past parks 
 and meadows, past villages and ancient manors 
 whose history I have made. Age cannot weaken 
 me and only strong sculls can pull against my will. 
 Mighty am I, the River God! My fords have de- 
 177 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 termined the sights of famous towns, and my locks 
 say to all who would pass by — Halt ! Obey my laws 
 if you would navigate my ways. Enter through the 
 sliding gates where the waters roar and darkness 
 falls across the sunshine." 
 
 And thus the Eiver, old in experience, restless 
 and vacillating, communed with himself. Power 
 had made him intolerant and none dared coerce 
 him, least of all the swaying rushes who dwelt be- 
 side his banks and were dependent on his changing 
 moods and currents. They had lost all power of 
 resistance. Trodden upon for ages, they had be- 
 come the world's symbol of weakness, and the winds 
 and tides swayed them as they would. But they 
 were beautiful and birds nested in their frail pali- 
 sades and sang to the River as he passed. What 
 wonder that he was proud of his dominion, and that 
 he felt his power ! But who is truly happy ? Alas ! 
 he knew that his depths were turbid, and that he 
 was polluted by the ceaseless traffic of ships that 
 came and went. The waters of the great seaport 
 swept far inland to his source, and then, turning 
 restlessly, demanded the treasure of the River and 
 levied on all his peaceful waters a toll to the sea. 
 Life was too much for him, and, buried in the 
 depths below his smiling surface, he was very tired. 
 So tired that at times he loved to stretch out his 
 178 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE RIVER 
 
 arms over the low green meadows and rest. There 
 for a while he would know calm, but he could never 
 stay. No act was enduring; his waters were like 
 quicksilver and morning found him always in a 
 different place. His restless nature communicated 
 itself to all whom he touched. Boats could not be 
 trusted for a moment alone on his waters, and even 
 the baby swans were so wild that at night their 
 parents tied them to the rushes lest, in the morn- 
 ing, they, too, should be gone. 
 
 "Ah!" sighed the River, "if my spirit could find 
 rest! But my waters must go on eternally, for, 
 old and powerful as I am, I can never change the 
 tides that rule me. Would that I might somewhere 
 find a land-locked harbor; there to lie so still that 
 every cloud and every star might be reflected on 
 my surface!" 
 
 Once, upon a summer evening, two lovers came 
 floating down the stream — sometimes sculling, 
 sometimes letting the current carry their boat 
 whither it would, as though their thoughts were 
 not concerned with the surrounding scene. Love is 
 an indifferent pilot, and they had abandoned the 
 rudder to his guidance. Who knows what unheroic 
 accident might have overtaken them had not the 
 River seen them, and loved them for their trust- 
 fulness. So many lovers came to him, confiding 
 179 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 in his guardianship and secrecy, that the old 
 River had grown to believe that half the marriages 
 in England were made by him. 
 
 "There must be something about me that suggests 
 the thing," he reasoned. "Maybe it is the sense 
 of playing with danger that they feel; the charm 
 of being carried on by unexpected tides; the ex- 
 citement of threading the gloomy locks, where I 
 close them in and roar at them until they have de- 
 cided." 
 
 But, in spite of his aloofness from human weak- 
 ness, the River lapped gently against the sides of 
 their boats and rejoiced when he reflected youth 
 and beauty. 
 
 On this summer evening, of which I write, a face 
 as lovely as he had ever seen looked down upon him, 
 and a slim brown hand reached over the boat and 
 touched him caressingly, holding him a moment in 
 its shell-like palm. The River dimpled and broke 
 in sparkling bubbles where the hand had been and 
 wondered what this curious madness, Love, could 
 be and whether a River might come to feel it, too. 
 At such thoughts he glided so gently that the boat 
 scarce moved upon the tide, where all the flowery 
 sedges lay mirrored. Somewhere a nightingale was 
 singing in the distant wood. It ceased and in the 
 silence the young girl spoke: 
 180 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE RIVER 
 
 "Do you know that sometimes your life suggests 
 to me this river? It is so diversified, so active, so 
 rarely calm, as now, when the current scarcely 
 moves and we glide through a reflected universe. 
 Even your love for me is restless and questioning 
 — why is it, dear? Would not life gain in beauty 
 and in depth if we stopped more often to reflect, as 
 the Eiver does tonight?" 
 
 "The end of man is an action, not a thought!" 
 replied her lover softly, stopping the idle play of 
 the oars that he might look more intently in her 
 eyes, filled with the gray light of evening. While 
 the River, with his lips to the boat's side, heard, 
 with amazement, his very words repeated. 
 
 "Action! action!" he murmured. "I knew that 
 I was right, and yet how strangely appealing her 
 words are! Poets can always express our long- 
 ings." 
 
 "It is wonderful," she went on musingly, "to be 
 in the vortex of life ; to embark' on great enterprises ; 
 to carry great responsibilities, as you do. My life 
 has passed within sound of this stream. Dreams 
 have been my realities. An artist but reflects and 
 absorbs. No one has ever wanted me for vital 
 things." 
 
 "Ah! but I do," exclaimed her lover. "I want 
 you for everything." 
 
 181 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 And the listening Kiver felt that here was an ele- 
 mental power, great as his own. 
 
 "I am glad," she said, "hut, nevertheless, I am 
 not really essential to destiny, any more than the 
 back-water running beneath its hazel bushes, is es- 
 sential to the Thames." 
 
 "If I could reach you," replied her lover, smil- 
 ing, "I would simply stifle this talk." 
 
 "Ah! but you cannot," she exclaimed playfully, 
 "it would be most undignified in a public man 
 whose name and career are in the world's eye." 
 
 "Wait until I have you out of the boat," he 
 threatened, and then, more tenderly, as though still 
 absorbed in her fancy, "If I am like the River, 
 what are you like? Look over the side of the boat 
 and let the Thames tell you. But who shall meas- 
 ure the power of beauty? It subjugates the world. 
 I sense you in every fibre of my being, but only a 
 poet could express all you make me feel. I will 
 yield him the right of superior eloquence so long 
 as he leaves me the vision I see now. If, as you 
 say, I am like the River in my nature ; too turbu- 
 lent to be controlled; too absorbed in making life 
 to see the profound simple truths that lie hidden 
 from my sight, you shall lead me to the purer 
 sources of knowledge. For you are like the lake 
 that lies so near your home" — pointing to an old 
 182 
 
THE LEGEND OF TEE RIVER 
 
 mansion that stood somewhat back from the River. 
 "The lake is deep and calm; its waters are clear, 
 for no impurity mingles with its source. Who 
 could drink of this tidal River? It is polluted, 
 while the lake offers a pure draught. Who sees 
 the stars reflected in this eddying stream? yet in 
 the lake the whole heaven lies revealed. Is it 
 strange that I should love the lake for being like 
 you? While I, daring and impassioned, seek to 
 wed my lower destiny with yours — Give me the 
 lake, dear love, that I may mingle with it forever ! " 
 
 The keel of the boat grated gently on the sand 
 and, under a willow tree, the lovers landed. They 
 took the path through the meadow to the old house 
 where, from the trees, the rooks were calling in the 
 gathering twilight. 
 
 How lonely the River felt when they had gone ! 
 He lapped the sides of their empty boat, and he 
 followed them through a narrow back-water until 
 it ended in a marsh. He longed to see the Lake 
 they had spoken of — that serene, transparent water 
 untroubled by man. The River was in love with 
 the very idea, and he felt that to mingle his waters 
 with its depths would be to know rapture. There 
 at last his traveled, tide-worn spirit could rest. 
 
 For almost a year the River dreamed of the Lake, 
 nor ever forgot the hazel back-water where he had 
 183 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 followed the departing lovers, and where he knew 
 the lake must lie. Spring came and with it the 
 flood tides. The Biver grew swollen and mighty. 
 He overflowed the meadows far and wide and at the 
 landing of the Willow Tree, he shot a long watery 
 arm inland. Sweeping all before him, he drew 
 nearer and nearer the ancient mansion. Each day 
 his ardor grew until he was close upon the Lake 
 that, like a lovely vision, lay shadowed in its grove 
 of cypress. Thirstily his lips touched the margin ; 
 kissed the still waters, and then, in a moment of 
 supreme rapture, he poured himself into its bosom. 
 
 184 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
AES LONGA 
 
 A T the bottom of the steep winding Montagne 
 ** de la Cour lies the Basse-ville, with its maze 
 of little streets, its cobble-stone pavements and 
 medieval houses whose peaked eaves look down on 
 the narrow trottoirs over which they lean. "When 
 the sun comes up in the morning it shines upon 
 these gables and turns them rosy, while the streets 
 below remain in shadow. If the dwellers wish to 
 know whether the day be fine, they look up at the 
 tall eaves and thank le bon Dieu if they are bright. 
 Far beneath the modern city, where the King's 
 Palace looks out on the Pare Leopold and the splen- 
 did Palais de Justice ends the vista from the Place 
 Eoyale, lies this ancient City of Brussels. Here 
 and there a view of its huddled roofs and smoking 
 chimneys can be seen lying just below, a veritable 
 glimpse into the middle ages. There, as you stand 
 looking down, the sound of ancient bells ascends, 
 sweet and melancholy voices out of the past. There, 
 187 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 from among its bourgeois neighbors, the tower of 
 the Hotel de Ville lifts itself like a superb medie- 
 val flower, mysterious in the dusk of a November 
 afternoon. 
 
 Fifty years ago, or thereabouts, in the rue Saint 
 Jacque, lived Hippolyte Gaudissart. He was an 
 old man then, for he had fought at Waterloo under 
 Napoleon and, after the battle was lost and his 
 adored general went to end his days in captivity, 
 Hippolyte settled in Brussels and realized the 
 dream of his life. He became a sculptor and dedi- 
 cated himself to poverty and to art. He loved his 
 mistress with all his soul and never dreamed of 
 abandoning her for a more lucrative way of life. 
 He preferred to starve his body rather than his 
 soul and so lose forever the vision of beauty. 
 
 At first his devotion was rewarded and he expe- 
 rienced a certain measure of success. But his age 
 was essentially prosaic in art. A very common- 
 place youth will sometimes read poetry and think 
 himself an inarticulate Shelley, but, as he advances 
 in life, his little Arethusa spring becomes dry and 
 art and poetry concern him no longer. And so it 
 was with the generation of Hippolyte Gaudissart. 
 As his early patrons became stout and influential 
 citizens, fathers of families or wealthy Burgomas- 
 ters, they knew him no more; their brief passion 
 188 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 for art died with their love passion. From this in- 
 difference of a world grown materialistic, Hippolyte 
 turned in despair to the ways and means of mere 
 subsistence. He modeled the children of his poorer 
 neighbors, he carved tomb-stones and descended so 
 low as to design stone griffins for the gate-ways of 
 mansions on the Avenue Louise, or gargoyles for 
 some new municipal building. Such tasks were 
 wrung from him by necessity, that he might live 
 and find in secret an outlet for the creative passion, 
 the libido of the sculptor. As the years passed and 
 he grew old, he lost even this contemptible clientele 
 and at seventy he found himself too discouraged to 
 struggle further. Patronless, unknown, and often 
 starving, he faced, in imagination, the horror of the 
 alms-house. One day he dragged himself to the 
 faubourg, where it was situated, and walked by, 
 glancing furtively at the low line of small com- 
 munity houses, the tiny gardens tilled by the old 
 men and the porches where, on summer evenings, 
 they smoked their pipes and told stories of their 
 youth, perhaps of that great battle where Hippo- 
 lyte, an heroic subaltern, had fought and suffered. 
 "Was this then the end of life? Had the dark cur- 
 tain descended on all its visions and were they, per- 
 haps, the unrealities? "Was this alms-house, this 
 world bare of beauty, the reality of existence which 
 189 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 he now realized for the first time? Better to give 
 his life in one supreme sacrifice than see it waste 
 through endless days of pauperism. 
 
 Wearily he returned to the street where he lived, 
 to the curious leaning houses of Saint Jacques and, 
 at the dusky entrance of one of its ancient dwell- 
 ings, he stopped, lifted the latch and entered — it 
 was his home. Exhausted, he sat down in the liv- 
 ing-room or kitchen, whose low-beamed ceiling and 
 familiar walls alone bore witness to the poignant 
 suffering of this, his last home-coming. A great 
 Frenchman once said, "All the changes of life, even 
 the most desired, bring their sadness, for that which 
 we leave in the old existence is a part of ourselves 
 and we must die to that life in order to enter upon 
 another. " It would not be too much to say that the 
 old sculptor's death agony took place as he sat 
 before his hearth, burnt out and cold. Presently 
 he roused himself and unstrapped the wooden leg he 
 had worn since the great battle, and which pressed 
 so painfully on the stump of his shattered knee. 
 Then, bowing his head on the arm of the worn settle, 
 he drank his cup to the lees. If life could but pass 
 at will ; if, by a beautiful act we could lay it down 
 as easily as we evoke it, then indeed we would be 
 masters of fate. 
 
 The room grew darker and darker and the bells 
 190 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 from the church towers of the Basse-ville struck 
 eight. Suddenly, above their inferior voices, the 
 Cathedral spoke. Softly at first, and then with 
 majestic authority, the chimes rang out a chant for 
 the Nunc Dimittis. Hippolyte raised his head and 
 listened. Difficult tears filled his eyes and he looked 
 about him like one who wakens from a dream. In- 
 stinctively he rose and stood listening, until the last 
 note trembled into silence. The cupboard doors on 
 either side the chimney stood open, as he had left 
 them that morning after his fruitless search for 
 food. Futile to look again. He felt for his pipe 
 and succeeded in scraping a pinch of tobacco from 
 the unexplored corners of his pockets. But his 
 stomach was weak and empty; the smoke sickened, 
 him. He longed to leave the desolate rooms and 
 only pain deterred him. In his absorption he 
 had walked miles that day and now bodily 
 suffering vied with his mental distress. At the end 
 of the unlighted room twilight glimmered through 
 a lattice in the wood paneling; over it, supported 
 by the embrasure, hung his musket and the sword 
 he had carried over fifty years ago on the memor- 
 able day when, young and adventurous, he had left 
 Paris with his regiment. No bodily infirmity then 
 weighed him down, no fear of an inglorious death 
 visited his imagination; for, if the end came, he 
 191 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 would win his panache amidst the roar of battle. 
 On the other side of the window hung an engrav- 
 ing of Napoleon, leading the Old Guard at Auster- 
 litz, and beyond was dimly visible the atelier, a 
 long room, ghost-like by reason of the pale unfin- 
 ished shapes that stood against the walls. In the 
 center, a stand supported a muffled form of clay 
 that had remained untouched for weeks. It was 
 to have been a bust of his hero and Hippolyte had 
 thought to portray with new inspiration the noble, 
 strongly marked features of his adored commander. 
 But his courage had failed him and his starved 
 strength sank before the task. It was long since 
 he had lifted the clammy drapery that covered the 
 head and which, with a hope he could not justify, 
 he had kept moist. Now the undying spirit of the 
 creator again stirred his worn energies and he 
 reached for his crutch. In the dim light he groped 
 his way to his work-room and, standing before the 
 unfinished bust, lifted the cloths and gazed at the 
 face but half emerged from clay. He longed 
 with a pang to complete his work and achieve in 
 this last effort the success that life had denied him. 
 Wearily, with hands resting on the revolving stand, 
 he gazed upon the face from which the eyes of his 
 commander looked out upon -him. The beautiful 
 lips were already eloquent and a quality more wist- 
 192 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 ful than is commonly attributed to Napoleon strug- 
 gled to expressive life. Suddenly, among the 
 crowding memories of battles past and gone, of dead 
 comrades, forgotten hopes and fears, the old sculp- 
 tor seemed once more to behold the face of Na- 
 poleon as he had seen it for the last time on the 
 field of Waterloo. He had passed swiftly on his 
 white horse, his features marked by tragic despair ; 
 almost before Hippolyte realized that it was the 
 Emperor, and not a vision, he had vanished. The 
 stillness of the atelier seemed to add reality to this 
 passion of memory and suddenly it seemed that 
 the lips of the statue moved and spoke. 
 
 "Sergeant Hippolyte Gaudissart, my life ended 
 in failure and in exile on the rocks of St. Helena. 
 Shall you murmur to lose the fight, or fear to obey 
 the commands of a greater than I, even Death him- 
 self?" Dizzy with weakness and obsessed by these 
 words that seemed to ring through the empty room, 
 the sculptor limped back to the fireside with a 
 thought that now held possession of his entire con- 
 sciousness. Death should be henceforth his com- 
 mander whom he would follow to the shades of ar- 
 mies past and gone. Better to die by his own hand, 
 that was once red with the blood of others, than to 
 wear out his few remaining years in an alms-house. 
 But life, could he find a means of subsistence, was 
 193 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 still precious; how could he violate it in his own 
 breast? The pang of parting with this last posses- 
 sion reanimated his failing strength and drove him 
 from the darkened room to the threshold of his 
 door. There, in the street, the old watchman was 
 making his rounds, bell in hand, "Nine o'clock and 
 all is well," he sang, and passed on beneath the 
 overhanging gables of Saint Jacque. ' ' All is well ? ' ' 
 murmured Hippolyte, "Bather all will be well 
 when I have joined my Colors." 
 
 Hastily preparing to leave the house and forget- 
 ting in his preoccupation the aching knee, to which 
 he restrapped his wooden leg, he passed down the 
 street to a busy thoroughfare. There, instinctively, 
 he turned his steps and was soon lost among the 
 throngs of the Basse-ville. The quaint shops were 
 still open and the cafes sent forth their steaming 
 odors, which assailed the senses of Hippolyte with 
 a sharp pang of hunger. He hurried on, however, 
 to where the ascent to the modern city began and 
 where a region of theatres and concert halls marked 
 the borders between the old and new. There the 
 signs were many and alluring to the passer-by and 
 Hippolyte was attracted by a small announcement 
 board on which he read: "Les Marionnettes renom- 
 m6es de Monsieur Paul Le Roux presentent quel- 
 ques Tableaux dans la vie de Napoleon." 
 194 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 Arrested by this magic name, the old soldier 
 stood irresolute before the lighted doorway where 
 the tiny spectacle was even then taking place. The 
 price of admittance was ten sous and a young girl, 
 with dark eyes and charming face, sat at the tiny 
 guichet to sell tickets. As Hippolyte hesitated be- 
 fore her window, draped in calico, the pretty con- 
 cierge looked up from the lace pillow, on which she 
 was working, and saw his face. Something in the 
 pale, wistful gaze of the old man, whose eyes burned 
 with a fever of pain, smote her tender heart. Smil- 
 ing, she accosted him in French: "Would Monsieur 
 care to see the puppets? The performance is very 
 amusing and the little artists are so naive and life- 
 like that it makes one young and happy just to look 
 at them. Monsieur Paul is a ventriloquist," she 
 continued; "he manages them with great skill. 
 There are still a few seats left." 
 
 "Ah! my dear young lady. I think nothing, not 
 even the Marionettes of Monsieur Paul Le Eoux, 
 could make me feel young and happy again. Were 
 it possible, then indeed I would enter." 
 
 "Try the experiment, Monsieur," she urged, 
 smiling. "Go in as the guest of the Marionettes 
 and afterwards you will wait and tell me if I have 
 spoken truth. " 
 
 "Mitte renter dements, Mademoiselle. I stopped 
 195 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 before your window with no thought to spend this 
 
 evening, my last " He hesitated, and meeting 
 
 her dark eyes, smiled in spite of himself. "But 
 with your permission I will enter, seeing that your 
 kind heart wishes to give me happiness, and after- 
 wards I will thank you." Opening the turnstile, 
 Mademoiselle Sophie Le Eoux admitted her guest 
 and, bidding him sit in the best place vacant, saw 
 him disappear into the darkness of the tiny theatre, 
 while she softly closed the door upon him. On find- 
 ing himself for the first time since his childhood in 
 such a place of entertainment, Hippolyte sat down 
 on the nearest bench. Folding his hands on his 
 stick with the patience of the old, who must look 
 at happiness through the eyes of other men, he sur- 
 veyed the quaint salle de spectacle where, for a mo- 
 ment, the curtain had descended on the miniature 
 stage. The front benches were cushioned and there 
 the more fashionable members of the audience had 
 taken their places. Behind in the pit were the chil- 
 dren of the Basse-ville with their fathers and moth- 
 ers, stout, well-to-do Flemings; while quite at the 
 back were those whose ten sous gave them only 
 standing room. These had taken off their sabots, 
 which they placed close beside them, and when the 
 little actors gave some unusual manifestations of 
 talent, these humbler spectators slipped their feet 
 196 
 
ARS LONOA 
 
 back into their wooden shoes, and beat with them 
 on the floor. In the brackets that hung from the 
 walls, candles flickered and dropped icicles of wax, 
 dimly illuminating a hall that resembled a tent 
 rather than a theatre. It was entirely draped with 
 tri-colored bunting drawn upward from the walls 
 like a canopy and ending in a rosette at the point 
 of the roof. Two improvised boxes occupied a place 
 on either side of the stage. In them were red vel- 
 vet chairs, and curtains of the bright calico that 
 draped the guicTiet of Mademoiselle Sophie. But 
 when at last the curtain rose, the hall, the audience 
 and the tri-colored walls vanished like mist before 
 the eyes of Hippolyte Gaudissart. For him ghosts 
 alone occupied the benches and sat in the stalls, — 
 ghosts whom he had known and loved in that far- 
 away childhood he still remembered with yearning. 
 Beside him he saw once again his pretty French 
 mother and his two little brothers, Guillaume and 
 Dodo, who long ago had given up their souls on the 
 battlefield of Jena. His father, so kindly, so proud 
 of his little sons and their mother, seemed just be- 
 side him ready to hold his hand when the crowd 
 pressed, or to whisper courage when the wicked 
 Blackamoor belabored poor Punch. Ah, how long 
 gone by, how sweet that vanished age of love and 
 innocence ! 
 
 197 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 While the Tableaux lasted, Hippolyte beheld, as 
 in a dream, the youthful Bonaparte, from the day 
 of his election as First Consul to the last rude pre- 
 sentment of his adieu to Josephine and his sur- 
 render to the English. It was all crude, the setting, 
 the costumes and the Marionettes, but, where the 
 talents of Monsieur le Directeur had scope, they 
 were truly amazing. His French was Parisian, his 
 diction as faultless as his histrionic sense. He was 
 an accomplished ventriloquist and breathed life into 
 the most unconvincing actors. Much would doubt- 
 less have offended the artistic susceptibilities of 
 Hippolyte had he not fallen under the spell of his 
 own vivid imagination. Gradually, as the enter- 
 tainment progressed and even while he criticised 
 the roughly modeled caricatures of the puppet com- 
 pany, he felt the old tingle of his childhood to 
 touch and fondle the elfin creatures. The infinite 
 possibilities of realism that they presented had been 
 nowhere attained. Their joints were poorly articu- 
 lated, their faces insipid and their power of motion 
 greatly limited by lack of sufficient strings. 
 
 As the curtain descended on the final scene, the 
 old sculptor's thoughts returned to his work-room 
 and to the unfinished bust, which the fatuous poiir 
 pee of Napoleon had recalled to his mind. He rose 
 from his seat and stood half dazed as the audience, 
 198 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 laughing and chattering, passed out of the theatre. 
 In a moment or two the face of Monsieur Paul Le 
 Boux peeped out from behind the red curtain, fol- 
 lowed by his small, active person as he came for- 
 ward, snuffer in hand, to put out the candles. 
 Mademoiselle Sophie entered at the same time from 
 her guicket, to assist her father in closing the house 
 and in covering the Marionettes for the night. 
 
 "Has Monsieur enjoyed the performance?" she 
 inquired, approaching the old man kindly. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he answered, roused from his 
 musings, "you were right. In this little theatre 
 where you made me welcome, I have gone back to 
 the days of my boyhood. Those who have long left 
 me returned, like gentle spirits, to sit beside me and 
 to hold my hand." 
 
 Sophie Le Roux looked at the speaker and her 
 eyes filled with tears. "Monsieur, you are not well 
 — you are too weak to have come out alone through 
 the boisterous throngs of the Basse-ville. Let me 
 see you home. I shall not think it a trouble. You 
 are exhausted, you are in some great affliction." 
 
 "Dieu vous benisse, mon enfant!" exclaimed 
 the sculptor, sinking back on the bench from which 
 he had just risen. "I started out this night with 
 no thought of returning to my house in the rue 
 Saint Jacque. It is devoid of all that once made it 
 
 199 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 home. The friends who used to come to it are gone, 
 the inspiration of my art is as cold as the hearth. 
 My pot-avrfeu is empty and I shall go back no 
 more." 
 
 "Where will you go then, cher Monsieur? You 
 cannot pass the night in the streets. Oh, let me 
 help you ! Your face, somehow, goes to my heart ! ' ' 
 
 The Direct eur had now joined them and regarded 
 the old man with little less compassion than his 
 daughter. But he was experienced no less than 
 kind. 
 
 "Allow me, Monsieur, to give you something, you 
 are exhausted," he cried, with the quick intuition 
 of the Frenchman. "I have here a flask of Bur- 
 gundy and some rolls. After the performance I am 
 often exhausted ; my company is somewhat wooden, 
 as you have doubtless discovered, and I keep a light 
 gouter for myself and my daughter." 
 
 Mademoiselle Sophie ran for the flask and, when 
 it was opened, Monsieur Paul, in his delicacy, swal- 
 lowed some himself and broke a roll. "A voire 
 sante, Monsieur!" he exclaimed, offering a well- 
 filled glass. 
 
 "Monsieur and Mademoiselle," began Hippolyte, 
 
 after drinking a few mouthfuls of the reviving wine. 
 
 "Your kindness would bring tears to my eyes; but 
 
 the veterans of Napoleon do not weep, they rather 
 
 200 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 glory in the past, for in the deepest misfortune they 
 have still their panache!" 
 
 "Nom de Dieu!" shouted the puppet manager. 
 ' ' We have sheltered an angel unawares. Permit me 
 to clasp your hand, to embrace you, Monsieur ! A 
 soldier who fought under the greatest Frenchman 
 God ever made shall have honor while there is life 
 in the breast of Paul Joseph Le Koux ! ' ' 
 
 Mademoiselle Sophie timidly touched the old 
 man on the shoulder, for, overpowered by the good- 
 ness of his chance acquaintances, he had bowed his 
 head on the stick he held between his knees. The 
 girl's maternal instinct was strongly roused and 
 she besought him to eat and drink and tell them his 
 grief that they might share it. 
 
 Taking her hand in his, Hippolyte Gaudissart 
 raised it to his lips. "Mademoiselle," he mur- 
 mured, "while such hearts as yours beat, there is 
 an anodyne for sorrow. I will indeed tell" you 
 something of my troubles, but I cannot burden your 
 sweet compassion with all these old sorrows of 
 mine. Simply I will confess that I have outlived 
 my generation. I stand among its graves and it is 
 my misfortune that Death refuses to give me my 
 place among them. To-night, though, must be my 
 last; I cannot support life longer under my pres- 
 ent " He stopped, while the look of suffering 
 
 201 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 deepened on his face. "Thank you, my kind 
 friends, my last friends, but I must go on now. I 
 had an errand when I set out to-night. For a mo- 
 ment I had forgotten it." 
 
 Realizing the tragic significance of these words 
 and divining much that the old man had left un- 
 said, Monsieur Paul, with unfailing tact and pres- 
 ence of mind, remonstrated with their new ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 "Monsieur would not surely leave us in the midst 
 of his gouter, when his glass is still unemptied! I 
 had conceived the happy idea of taking him behind 
 the scenes and of introducing him to the Green 
 Room. Surely you will not disappoint me," he 
 pleaded, with delightful bonhomie, "I have set my 
 heart on showing you some of the mysteries of the 
 puppet world." 
 
 Hippolyte hesitated a moment, unwilling to dis- 
 appoint the kind impresario, yet loath to delay his 
 vague but terrible purpose which seemed more 
 than ever the one door through which he might pass 
 to oblivion. "Monsieur," he answered apologetic- 
 ally, "I am at your service, if you will pardon 
 my lack of spirits. I am interested in all expres- 
 sions of art, and this will be a novel field for 
 me." 
 
 "Allons done!" ejaculated Monsieur Paul, happy 
 202 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 to see that he had won. "Vous etes un brave gar- 
 gon, and now for the Marionettes!" 
 
 At the right of the stage a door admitted them 
 to the wings, where a truly bizarre scene presented 
 itself. The stage was approached by rough, ladder- 
 like steps which, it was plain to see, were not used 
 by the actors. Back of these, other steps ascended 
 tortuously to a gallery, or, more correctly speak- 
 ing, a scaffolding behind and above the stage, where 
 Monsieur le Directeur and his assistant stood while 
 manipulating the strings of the little actors and 
 where he spoke their parts like a kind of deus ex 
 macJiina. From this elevation he was invisible to 
 the audience, but could command the whole stage 
 and usher in tKe characters of the drama by means 
 of a complication of strings, attached to each Mar- 
 ionette, and which it required great skill and pres- 
 ence of mind to work successfully. Each puppet, 
 with its tackle, was hung on a quaint wooden arm 
 that projected from a wall where they were 
 grouped according to their importance in the play, 
 and also with comparative security from unfortu- 
 nate liasons or entanglements. The long strings 
 of each performer were attached to a piece of wood, 
 in shape not unlike a bird with square wings ; and 
 it was a matter of experience to know that, by pull- 
 ing the cords fastened to the wings, the feet and 
 
 203 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 hands were moved ; while those attached to the body 
 of the bird manipulated the head, shoulders and 
 arms of the artist. When, at his cue, an actor was 
 hurried from his pendant position in the Green 
 Room, Monsieur Paul, or his assistant, ushered him 
 skilfully on the stage, illumined by foot-lights, ma- 
 nipulated his limbs and recited his lines with in- 
 finite sympathy and spirit. In the dim background 
 of the wings was crowded the paraphernalia of the 
 actors — chairs, sofas, summer-houses, trees, rocks, 
 and a Greek Temple, the size of a large dolls' house, 
 used in classic dramas. 
 
 "Monsieur," cried the delighted Directeur, who 
 had mounted the tiny stage, where he resembled 
 Gargantua about to swallow the five pilgrims, "We 
 have ten actors in our company. They play in 
 many roles, from the tragedies of Euripides to Mo- 
 liere, Racine and Goldoni — not to mention the com- 
 edies of our own day which, TiMas, the bourgeoisie 
 of the Basse-ville greatly prefers. But we are edu- 
 cational, Monsieur, and in spite of the disrepute 
 into which the theatre has fallen in our degenerate 
 age, I seek to inculcate a certain ton, an elevation 
 of taste, I might say, in our performance which you 
 would find only in the most artistic puppet shows 
 of Paris." 
 
 "You amaze me!" exclaimed his guest, whose 
 204 
 
AES LONGA 
 
 ready imagination kindled in response to the en- 
 thusiastic, but naive, ideals of Monsieur Paul Le 
 Eoux. Here was another world and his troubles 
 lay like a fog-bank along the horizon of his mind 
 and for a time the distress signals were silent. 
 
 "Now, mon ami," added the Directeur, who pos- 
 sessed the fire and artistic elan of his race and who 
 handled delicate and minute mechanism with the 
 nicety of a juggler, "mount to the stage where I 
 will bring out some of our most accomplished ar- 
 tists!" 
 
 At this Hippolyte Gaudissart actually laughed. 
 The sound would have startled him had he heard it 
 an hour before. Scrambling to the rude upper gal- 
 lery, Monsieur Paul preceded his guest, who, with 
 considerable difficulty, brought his crippled leg to 
 the level of the stage, where Mademoiselle Sophie 
 anticipated the pleasure of introducing him to the 
 troupe. The father and daughter were as happy as 
 children at the prospect of an exhibition, and while 
 Monsieur Paul released the puppets from the swing- 
 ing beam where they hung and ushered them on 
 the stage, Mademoiselle Sophie was their spokes- 
 woman. 
 
 At first, Pierre Leboeuf, very limp and careless 
 as to his legs and feet, and about waist high, came 
 out from the dark wings, bowing and gliding along 
 205 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 the stage to where the stranger stood. There he 
 stopped abruptly, bent his strange little head and 
 extended his hand for Monsieur to take. With a 
 kind of awe at anything so life-like, so elfin as the 
 touch of his bony fingers, Hippolyte held them in 
 dazed astonishment. "Pierre is French," said 
 Sophie, caressing him and smoothing back his mop 
 of black hair, as one would a child's, "he is always 
 happy and always funny. He takes peasant parts 
 and in his blue smock and sabots, reminds me of 
 my dear countrymen who toil in the fields of la belle 
 France. Pierrot," she murmured, from her kneel- 
 ing position, where she could play more conven- 
 iently with the little actors, "go back to your place 
 and send your grandfather, Pierre le Vieux. This 
 soldier-gentleman wishes to salute him." 
 
 Grinning, the young peasant retired and from the 
 wings came forth another strange little creature 
 much bent, with long white hair. He leaned on a 
 staff and, strapped to his back, he carried a bundle 
 of faggots. To the amazement of Hippolyte he, too, 
 approached him after the gliding, lackadaisical 
 manner of puppets and, letting down his bundle, 
 stood at attention, making the veteran of Waterloo 
 a quaint military salute. 
 
 Mademoiselle Sophie laughed aloud and took him 
 in her arms, faggots, staff and all, and, kissing his 
 206 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 funny, expressive little face, carried him off the 
 stage, murmuring in her motherly way that he was 
 much too old and weak to be up so late, his faggots 
 were too heavy and she would make petit Pierre 
 carry them henceforth. Then came one of the la- 
 dies, who had taken part in the Napoleonic Tab- 
 leaux, none other than Josephine herself. She wore 
 a soiled satin robe surrounded by a border of golden 
 bees and she emerged from the dark background of 
 the scaffolding like a little white ghost. She seemed 
 to be composed of papier mache and she was of 
 an entirely different make from the masterpieces 
 representing Pierre and Gaffer Pierre. Her cheeks 
 were dabbed with red and her hair was made of 
 black wool, parted at one side and drawn to a high 
 chignon at the back of her head. 
 
 "Monsieur," she piped in a strange treble, which 
 seemed to proceed from her cherry lips, "I am re- 
 joiced to see a member of the Old Guard!" Her 
 bosom, which her decollete" bodice revealed, rose and 
 fell as she spoke. It was actually uncanny ; Hippo- 
 lyte receded a step while she continued to advance, 
 until, taking her narrow skirts in her hands, she 
 curtsied low to the Veteran. So profound was her 
 genuflection that she almost lost her balance and 
 toppled over on the floor. 
 
 "Poor dear!" murmured Sophie, with indignant 
 207 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 sympathy. "No wonder she feels faint when she 
 has just been divorced ! Come to me, my Empress, 
 Sophie will comfort you," and the indefatigable 
 nurse and mother of them all set her on her feet, 
 embraced her and called her sweet names of re- 
 spectful affection. 
 
 "They are like my children, Monsieur," she 
 apologized, smiling up at the old man with a charm- 
 ing expression. "You will think me foolish, per- 
 haps, but, when you see them perform night after 
 night, and when they earn your bread for you and 
 are always so good, so reliable, you really get to 
 love them." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I understand more than you 
 think. Though I have never seen such little puppet 
 people before, I have the strangest feeling when I 
 watch them glide out on their invisible strings, bow, 
 gesture and present their hands, — it is really weird. 
 Your company does you honor, Monsieur Le Roux," 
 he continued, looking up to the gallery, where, in 
 the dim light, the form of Monsieur le Directeur 
 could be seen, regarding them genially. 
 
 "I thank you in the name of my company," he 
 replied. "We are at some disadvantage owing to 
 the absence of Alcide, our assistant. Still, if you 
 will take us as we are, I would like to show you 
 two distinguished Danes, never cast for the bour- 
 208 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 geoisie of the Basse-ville. Attendez un moment." 
 As he spoke he hurried to the end of the gallery, 
 and immediately two figures were seen advancing, 
 side by side, through the wings — Hamlet and 
 Ophelia, pale, wan figures who stopped in the mid- 
 dle of the stage and wrung their hands. Hamlet 
 wore a Gothic crown and was wrapped in a black 
 velvet mantle, while Ophelia trailed a smoke-like 
 drapery after her. On her head she wore a wreath 
 of flowers from which her hair descended in a flaxen 
 stream. They looked about like poor lost puppets 
 and then, with a despairing gesture, Ophelia cast 
 herself at Hamlet's feet. Mademoiselle cried out to 
 her father, "Oh! don't make her go through 
 the mad scene; we do not want any sad things to- 
 night, mon pere; let them all go to bed now. Poor 
 Ophelia was so out of her head the last time Ham- 
 let was billed, that she tore her best robe and had 
 a terrible scene with the Empress in the Green 
 Room, just because Hamlet went near her. Come, 
 poor melancholy Danes," she cried, "Sophie will 
 put you to sleep." 
 
 The old sculptor smiled at such naivete com- 
 bined with so much discernment and, once more 
 addressing Monsieur Paul, asked him why there 
 was such a discrepancy in the workmanship of the 
 actors. "The first," he reasoned, "the peasants, 
 209 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 are wonderfully made, with real inspiration and 
 similitude to life, whereas Josephine and the figures 
 of Hamlet and Ophelia seem of a totally different 
 genre and less convincing, — if you will pardon my 
 frankness." 
 
 "Monsieur is right," replied the Directeur, clam- 
 bering down from the prompter's box, as he laugh- 
 ingly called the gallery. "Permit me to illustrate 
 what you say even more forcibly than you have 
 divined it. Here is young Pierre," he cried, lead- 
 ing Hippolyte to the side of the stage, where the 
 Marionettes hung awaiting their cues, "behold how 
 exquisitely he is made, and observe, Monsieur, the 
 complicated mechanism of strings and the conse- 
 quent mobility of his acting. These cords are made 
 of the finest trout line, invisible from the benches. 
 With these twelve strands I can make him do any- 
 thing, move every part of his body, cause him to 
 wink, to smile and even to shake his forefinger. 
 See how this thread, attached to his hand, enables 
 him to point to the audience, to lay it on his nose 
 or his lips, as I direct. The truth is, Monsieur," 
 continued the little Frenchman, waxing more con- 
 fidential as he saw the interest on the face of his 
 visitor, "I have only two Marionettes who are 
 worthy the high artistic aims of my company. The 
 others are, — bah! they are wooden poupees, as you 
 210 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 have seen at a glance, poor caricatures of the great 
 achievements possible in this art. In Paris I have 
 seen puppets who, in classic roles, were more con- 
 vincing than real actors. There I have seen Iphi- 
 genia in Aulis, Electra and many of the great 
 Greek dramas more artistically rendered by these 
 little actors than by the ranting, self-conscious 
 moderns who insist on expressing themselves and 
 refuse to subordinate their own mannerisms to 
 classic standards. But these Marionettes, when 
 they are intrinsically works of art, pass through 
 the tragic developments of the Greek drama like ex- 
 quisite statues who move, as it were, blindly to their 
 Fate." 
 
 "You amaze me," cried the old sculptor, "and 
 you interest me in a field of art wholly new to me. 
 Would you not be happy could all your company 
 partake of the excellence of Pierre and Gaffer 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "Ah!" cried the Directeur, showing a set of 
 snow white teeth as he smiled, and extending his 
 ten fingers in a gesture half comic and wholly 
 French. "Would not a man prefer to possess the 
 original Venus de Milo than her plaster copy?" 
 
 "Cannot others be made by the artist who created 
 your peasants?" 
 
 "Mes freres, Monsieur! If I were rich I would 
 211 
 
BUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 go to him, all the way to Paris, to the rue Saint 
 Antoine where he lives, and he should make for 
 Paul Joseph Le Koux an entire troupe of noble, 
 gracious puppets. Then I could hire a theatre in 
 the most aristocratic quarter of the city and give 
 presentations to the nobility and their children. 
 Then would we become rich and famous, Sophie and 
 her old father." 
 
 "Perhaps I know a man who would be capa- 
 ble of making you a very superior company of 
 little actors and who would do it for a modest 
 sum." 
 
 "Name him to me, Monsieur, name that being, 
 who could achieve such noble work as Jean Monet 
 has done in the two Pierres." 
 
 "I hesitate, for I am not perfectly sure; but I 
 think that I could find him here in Brussels, and 
 that I know the artist." 
 
 "Hon Dieu! Monsieur, tell us quickly," en- 
 treated Mademoiselle Sophie, who had been listen- 
 ing to every word and was as enthusiastic as her 
 father. "I have some savings, have I not, mon 
 pere? and if this would make our fortunes !" 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I will tell you," Hippolyte re- 
 plied, "Jam that man ! " 
 
 The faces of the father and daughter expressed 
 the utmost wonder and incredulity. For an instant 
 212 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 neither spoke and, in the stillness, the Marionettes 
 could be heard swaying together lightly from their 
 hooks in the draughty wings. 
 
 "You are astonished," resumed the old sculptor, 
 "but you cannot know half the amazement I myself 
 feel. I told you after the performance, when you 
 found me standing, dazed with weakness and mis- 
 fortune, that I was a veteran of Waterloo, and I 
 told you the fact. But far more truly I am a sculp- 
 tor, an artist who has seen the perfect vision and 
 has followed it through a long life time. Art has 
 been my joy and my despair. This very night I 
 left my house determined to end a life from which 
 the glory and the meaning have departed. In my 
 own field I have outlived my genre; the public taste 
 has changed and I am, alas, too old to adapt myself 
 to the new school. Thus I am caught, as it were, 
 between two generations, worthless in either; and 
 my trouble is the more intolerable that the unrea- 
 soning, primordial desire for food still takes place 
 in me and I am at a loss how to gratify it. Strange 
 as it may seem to you, my friends, I feel that, while 
 I am now powerless in the higher realms of my art, 
 this unexpected discovery of a more primitive form 
 would appeal to me and in it I might experience a 
 fresh and charming inspiration. Perhaps," he 
 continued, smiling sadly, "I am in my second child- 
 213 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 hood, when one returns to the toys and make-be- 
 lieves of the age of innocence." 
 
 The light of his brief happiness died out of the 
 eyes of Hippolyte Gaudissart and he sat miserably 
 down on the rough steps that led from the stage. 
 The momentary animation which had raised him 
 above the cruel realities of his life vanished, leav- 
 ing the sky leaden as before. With the stirring of 
 genius, youth had come back to the sculptor and 
 the creative impulse rose once more in all its im- 
 perishable beauty. Alas, he was deceived! Even 
 to fashion dolls seemed no longer possible; he had 
 been dreaming one more dream before the falling 
 of that endless slumber, to which he returned in 
 thought as the last alternative. 
 
 Monsieur Paul and his daughter looked at each 
 other, and then at their guest, with deep compas- 
 sion. Tears darkened the eyes of Sophie and she 
 turned to wipe them furtively on the strings of her 
 Flemish cap. 
 
 "Monsieur," began the Directeur earnestly, "I 
 have the utmost confidence in your genius, as one 
 who has concerned himself with higher and more 
 dignified forms of art than the modeling of Marion- 
 ettes. But, if such a sphere of work appeals to you 
 and will not degrade your talent, then, en evant, 
 mon ami, and create for us, as your first venture, a 
 214 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 Napoleon! If this- is successful, then I shall no 
 more regret my inability to employ the assistance 
 of Monsieur Jean Monet." 
 
 "Ah, Father," cried Sophie, "I am so happy! 
 Monsieur, Monsieur," she went on excitedly, taking 
 the hands of the sculptor, "you must not grieve 
 any more. I shall be your friend. Father and I 
 will make life different for you and my prophecy 
 will come true. The Marionettes will bring you 
 happiness once again." 
 
 For a moment the old soldier could not trust him- 
 self to speak. Then he rose with a gesture which 
 seemed to acknowledge their goodness and to re- 
 buke, at the same time, his own weakness. He 
 stretched out his hands and clasped one of each of 
 his new friends. "I cannot speak what is in my 
 heart," he began, in a voice that was very tremu- 
 lous. "I feel at this moment a greater emotion for 
 you than I ever expected to experience again for 
 man or woman. Such ability as I have is henceforth 
 at your service, and at the service of les petits," 
 acknowledging, with a whimsical wave of the hand, 
 the puppets in their Green Room across the stage. 
 
 "But I know that it is only a trial of my ability, 
 
 and, if I fail, I shall be the first to perceive it. 
 
 Should you be satisfied and prosper by my means, 
 
 then I shall have repaid, in part, the debt of ray 
 
 215 
 
RUSE-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 life, which I owe to Mademoiselle Sophie. Her 
 smile, her exquisite sympathy for the sorrows of 
 age, have given back to me the vision that has made 
 life precious." 
 
 "We will walk home with you, Monsieur," re- 
 plied the little Directeur, deeply touched and too 
 simple to hide the emotion that filled his eyes. "In 
 order that you may make an immediate beginning 
 in the work," he continued, "I will advance you a 
 sum to cover your initial expenses. At the moment 
 I am more prosperous, perhaps, than you, Mon- 
 sieur; although," he added, smiling with much 
 bonhomie, "I have known times when this terribly 
 exacting banque," laying his head on his stomach, 
 "cried out for deposits and there were none." 
 
 Hippolyte smiled as he replied, "My idea would 
 be first to design the little figure of Napoleon in 
 clay— a medium in which I am at home. I have 
 some which, strange to say, was destined for a bust 
 of my great general, but which stands unfinished in 
 my work-room. When my design is perfected, I 
 will submit it for your approval. If that is gained, 
 I will at once carve it in wood, joint it exquisitely, 
 as near to human flexibility as my material and 
 skill will permit. Then I will upholster the little 
 actor and make his face, which I purpose to carve 
 from a fine wood that comes from Italy and which, 
 216 
 
ARS LONGA 
 
 when properly oiled and waxed, takes color as 
 charmingly as porcelain. In my slight experience 
 of puppets," continued Hippolyte, "I perceive that 
 the greater their mobility the greater their simili- 
 tude to life. I have already thought of a way by 
 which the tiny strings can be multiplied and yet 
 simplified, so that their movements can be almost 
 without limit. When I have experimented with 
 my theory, I will. seek your sanction." 
 
 They laughed gaily, and Mademoiselle Sophie 
 lifted her blue repp skirt and danced across the 
 stage for joy in her old friend's happiness. 
 
 "Ah Monsieur!" she cried, "there is one all- 
 important thing that you have forgotten, and which 
 only a woman knows. Clothes ! costumes for all the 
 beautiful new marionettes who are to make us fa- 
 mous and provide me with a dot. What shall you 
 do for these?" 
 
 "You think, Mademoiselle Sophie, to find the 
 old sculptor as senseless as his clay, but this time 
 you cannot catch him. You are to make the new 
 costumes and together we will design them. I have 
 made a study of classic draperies and medieval 
 dress, and I will draw and paint such costumes for 
 your clever hands to carry out." 
 
 Thus, overjoyed in their new found interest and 
 already feeling a warm friendship uniting them, 
 217 
 
RUSH-LIGHT STORIES 
 
 the Directeur and his daughter wished Hippolyte 
 "Bon soir" at his doorway under the curious gables 
 of Saint Jacque. Entering the dark house from 
 which he had gone forth, only a few hours before, 
 a haunted despairing soul, Hippolyte returned, 
 healed by human love. He was too weary to care 
 that the place was cold and the rooms unlighted. 
 He stood for a moment beside his bed, then, with a 
 sudden rush of gratitude, the wings of his soul flut- 
 tered and he sank to his knees, speechless, but with 
 a poignant sense of some Great Presence near him, 
 filling his empty house. A new door had opened 
 in the blind alley he had called life, and, in the 
 rush of light that flooded it, Hippolyte Gaudissart 
 closed his eyes and was soon asleep. 
 
 Maud H. Chapin. 
 
 218