close. He took the bottle to fill up his liqueur glass, in defiance; but a hand in a long white glove, with another dangling from its wrist, pulled it away, shook it at him, and replaced it in the sideboard. And, just as when Mr. Ventnor stood there accusing him, a swelling and churning in his throat prevented him from speech; his lips moved, but only a little froth came forth. His daughter had approached again. She stood quite close, in white satin, thin-faced, sallow, with eyebrows raised, and her dark hair frizzed -yes! frizzed-the holy woman! With all his might he tried to say: 'So you bully me, do you—you bully me to-night!' but only the word "so" and a sort of whispering came forth. He heard her speaking. After champagne - it's "It's no good your getting angry, Father. wicked!" Then her form receded in a sort of rustling white mist; she was gone; and he heard the spluttering and growling of her taxi, bearing her to the ball. So! She tryrannized and bullied, even before she had him at her mercy, did she? She should see! Anger had brightened his eyes; the room came clear again. And slowly raising himself he sounded the bell twice, for the girl, not for that fellow Meller, who was in the plot. As soon as her pretty black and white-aproned figure stood before him, he said: "Help me up!" Twice her soft pulling was not enough, and he sank back. The third time he struggled to his feet. "Thank you! that'll do." Then, waiting till she was gone, he crossed the room, fumbled open the sideboard door, and took out the bottle. Reaching over the polished oak, he grasped a sherry glass; and holding the bottle with both hands, tipped the liquor into it, put it to his lips. and sucked. Drop by drop it passed over his palate-mild, very old, old as himself, colored like sunlight, fragrant. To the last drop he drank it, then hugging the bottle to his shirt-front, he moved snail-like to his chair, and fell back into its depths. For some minutes he remained there motionless, the bottle clasped to his chest, thinking: "This is not the attitude of a gentleman. I must put it down on the table-on the table;' but a thick cloud was between him and everything. It was with his hands he would have to put the bottle on the table! But he could not find his hands, could not feel them. His mind see-sawed in strophe and antistrophe: "You can't move!"-"I will move!" "You're beaten"-"I'm not beat." "Give up"-"I won't." That struggle to find his hands seemed to last for ever he must find them! After that-go down-all standingafter that! Everything round him was red. Then the red cloud cleared just a little, and he could hear the clock-"tick-tick-tick"; a faint sensation spread from his shoulders down to his wrists, down his palms; and yes-he could feel the bottle! He redoubled his struggle to get forward in his chair; to get forward and put the bottle down. It was not dignified like this! One arm he could move now; but he could not grip the bottle nearly tight enough to put it down. Working his whole body forward, inch by inch, he shifted himself up in the chair till he could lean sideways, and the bottle, slipping down his chest, dropped slanting to the edge of the low stool-table. Then with all his might he screwed his trunk and arms an inch further, and the bottle stood. He had done it-done it! His lips twitched into a smile; his body sagged back to its old position. He had done it! And he closed his eyes. At half-past eleven the girl Molly, opening the door, looked at him and said softly: "Sirr! there's some ladies, and a gentleman!" But he did not answer. And, still holding the door, she whispered out into the hall: "He's asleep, miss." A voice whispered back: "Oh! Just let me go in, I won't wake him unless he does. But I do want to show him my dress." The girl moved aside; and on tiptoe Phyllis passed in. She walked to where, between the lamp-glow and the fire-glow, she was lighted up. White satin-her first low-cut dress-the flush of her first supper party a gardenia at her breast, another in her fingers! Oh! what a pity he was asleep! How red he looked! How funnily old men breathed! And mysteriously, as a child might, she whispered: "Guardy!" No answer! And pouting, she stood twiddling the gardenia. Then suddenly she thought: 'I'll put it in his buttonhole! When he wakes up and sees it, how he'll jump!' And stealing close, she bent and slipped it in. Two faces looked at her from round the door; she heard Bob Pillin's smothered chuckle; her mother's rich and feathery laugh. Oh! How red his forehead was! She touched it with her lips; skipped back, twirled round, danced silently a second, blew a kiss, and like quicksilver was gone. And the whispering, the chuckling, and one little outpealing laugh rose in the hall. But the old man slept. Nor until Meller came at his usual hour of half-past twelve, was it known that he would never wake. RALPH HODGSON Time, you Old Gipsy Man TIME, you old gipsy man, All things I'll give you Peacocks shall bow to you, Oh, and sweet girls will Last week in Babylon, You tighten your rein- Now blind in the womb, Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gipsy man, Eve EVE, with her basket, was Down in the bells and grass Mute as a mouse in a Curled round a bough of the Now to get even and "Eva!" Each syllable Soft as a bubble sung Picture that orchard sprite, Oh, had our simple Eve Out of the boughs he came, Here was the strangest pair Telling his story low. . . . Oh, what a clatter when How the birds rated him, How they all hated him! Winter Dusk How they all pitied Poor motherless Eve! Picture her crying Eve, with no dish of sweet WALTER DE LA MARE The Sleeper As Ann came in one summer's day, So silent was the clear cool house, It seemed a house of sleep. So that her small unconscious face Still seemed her gaze to rest- On Ann; as quite, quite still she stood; Seemed saturate with sleep. On stealthy, mouselike feet she trod, DARK frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, But of the three around the fire, Still stooped they o'er their book. And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Of her small story meant. No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, Yet when, the story done, she smiled No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom. listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head: "Tell them I came, and no one answered, Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON From THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE Book VII. Ethandune: The Last Charge King Guthrun and his Northmen ravaged the land from Chester to the Humber, until they came to the heights of Wessex and the Hill of the Horse. Here, in the Battle of Ethandune, they were finally attacked by the hastily mustered forces of King Alfred and his Chiefs. In the first day's fighting the Chiefs-Saxon, Celt, Roman, and Norseman-all were slain, and Alfred was driven back, with a tiny remnant of his poor host. AWAY in the waste of White Horse Down An idle child alone Played some small game through hours that pass And patiently would pluck the grass, On the lean, green edge for ever, turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions With roarings from the land. Through the long infant hours like days Piled up small stones to make a town, And crimson kings on battle-towers, And patriots riding royally. That rush the rocking town, Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. And this was the might of Alfred At the ending of the way; For Eldred fought like a frank hunter, |