January 2010 - Pppehrserver-users - lists.ourproject.org

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14 Jan '10

O greet him when he comes. Think not I fear thine anger: this day, thou, Lord of the silver bow, shalt bring a guest To sit in presence of the equal Gods In your high hall: wheel but thy chariot near, That I may mount beside thee! ----What is this? I hear the crackling hiss of singed plumes! The stench of burning feathers stifles me! My loins are stung with drops of molten wax!-- Ai! ai! my ruined vans!--I fall! I die! * * * * * Ere the blue noon o'erspanned the bluer strait Which parts Icaria from Samos, fell, Amid the silent wonder of the air, Fell with a shock that startled the still wave, A shrivelled wreck of crisp, entangled plumes, A head whence eagles' beaks had plucked the eyes, And clots of wax, black limbs by eagles torn In falling: and a circling eagle screamed Around that floating horror of the sea Derision, and above Hyperion shone. * * * * * WALKER. I confess to knowledge of a large book bearing the above title,--a title which is no less appropriate for this brief, disrupted biographical memorandum. That I have a right to act as I have done, in adopting it, will presently appear,--as well as that the honored name thus appropriated by me refers neither io the dictionary nor the _filibustero_, both of which articles appear to have been superseded by newer and better things. At the first flush, Fur would seem to be rather a sultry subject to open either a store or a story with, in these glowing days of a justly incensed thermometer. And yet there is a fine bracing mountain-air to be drawn from the material, as with a spigot, if you will only favor your mind with a digression from the tangible article to the wild-rose associations in which it is enveloped. Think of the high, wind-swept ridges, among the clefts of which are the only homesteads of the hardy pioneers by whose agency alone one kind of luxury is kept up to the standard demand for it in the great cities. It might not be so likely a place to get fancy drinks in as Broome Street, certainly, we must admit, as we picture to ourselves some brushy ravine in which the trapper has his irons cunningly set out f

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Ettle everything round a dinner-table." She was sitting in front of the fire in a high-backed chair. She never cared to loll, and the shaded light from the electric sconces upon the mantelpiece illumined her. "If the world were properly stage-managed, that's what you ought to be," he said, "the wife of a Prime Minister. I can see you giving such an excellent performance." "I must talk to Mary," he added, "see if we can't get you off on some promising young Under Secretary." "Don't give me ideas above my station," laughed Joan. "I'm a journalist." "That's the pity of it," he said. "You're wasting the most important thing about you, your personality. You would do more good in a drawing- room, influencing the rulers, than you will ever do hiding behind a pen. It was the drawing-room that made the French Revolution." The firelight played about her hair. "I suppose every woman dreams of reviving the old French Salon," she answered. "They must have been gloriously interesting." He was leaning forward with clasped hands. "Why shouldn't she?" he said. "The reason that our drawing-rooms have ceased to lead is that our beautiful women are generally frivolous and our clever women unfeminine. What we are waiting for is an English Madame Roland." Joan laughed. "Perhaps I shall some day," she answered. He insisted on seeing her as far as the bus. It was a soft, mild night; and they walked round the Circle to Gloucester Gate. He thought there would be more room in the buses at that point. "I wish you would come oftener," he said. "Mary has taken such a liking to you. If you care to meet people, we can always whip up somebody of interest." She promised that she would. She always felt curiously at home with the Greysons. They were passing the long sweep of Chester Terrace. "I like this neighbourhood with its early Victorian atmosphere," she said. "It always makes me feel quiet and good. I don't know why." "I like the houses, too," he said. "There's a character about them. You don't often find such fine drawing-rooms in London." "Don't forget your promise," he reminded her, when they parted. "I shall tell Mary she may write to you." She met Carleton by chance a day or two later, as she was entering the office. "I want to see you," he said; and took her up with him into his room. "We must stir the people up about this food business," he said, plunging at once into his subject. "Phillips is quite right. It

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