spell to thee.”—Patience Worth.

Strictly speaking, there is no prose in the compositions of Patience Worth. That which I have here classified as prose, lacks none of the essential elements of poetry, except a continuity of rhythm. The rhythm is there, the iambic measure which she favors being fairly constant, but it is broken by sentences and groups of sentences that are not metrical, and while it would not be difficult to arrange most of this matter in verse form, I am inclined to think that to the majority it will read smoother and with greater ease as prose. Nevertheless, as will be seen, it is poetry. The diction is wholly of that order, and it is filled with strikingly vivid and agreeable imagery. There is, however, this distinction: most of the matter here classed as prose is dramatic in form and treatment, and each composition tells a story—a story with a definite and well-constructed plot, dealing with real and strongly individualized people, and mingling humor and pathos with much effectiveness. They bring at once a smile to the face and a tear to the eye. They differ, too, from the poetry, in that they have little or no apparent spiritual significance. They are stories, beautiful stories, unlike anything to be found in the literature of any country or any time, but, except in the shadowy figure of “The Stranger,” they do not rise above the things of earth. That is not to say, however, that they are not spiritual in the intellectual or emotional sense of the word, as distinguished from the soul relation.

At the end of an evening a year and a half after Patience began her work, she said: “Thy hearth is bright. I fain would knit beside its glow and spinn a wordy tale betimes.”

At the next sitting she began the “wordy tale.” Up to that time she had offered nothing in prose form but short didactic pieces, such as will appear in subsequent chapters of this book, and the circle was lost in astonishment at the unfolding of this story, so different in form and spirit from anything she had previously given.

Her stories are, as already stated, dramatic in form. Indeed they are condensed dramas. After a brief descriptive introduction or prologue, all the rest is dialogue, and the scenes are shifted without explanatory connection, as in a play. In the story of “The Fool and the Lady” which follows, the fool bids adieu to the porter of the inn, and in the next line begins a conversation with Lisa, whom he meets, as the context shows, at some point on the road to the tourney. It is the change from the first to the second act or scene, but no stage directions came from the board, no marks of division or change of scene, nor names of persons speaking, except as indicated in the context. In reproducing these stories, no attempt has been made to put them completely in the dramatic form for which they were evidently designed, the desire being to present them as nearly as possible as they were received; but to make them clearer to the reader the characters are identified, and shift of scene or time has been indicated.

And there it lay, asleep. A mantle, gray as monk’s cloth, its covering. Dim-glowing tapers shine like glowflies down the narrow winding streets. The sounds of early morning creep through the thickened veil of heavy mist, like echoes of the day afore. The wind is toying with the threading smoke, and still it clingeth to the chimney pot.

There stands, beyond the darkest shadow, the Inn of Falcon Feather, her sides becracked with sounding of the laughter of the king and gentlefolk, who barter song and story for the price of ale. Her windows sleep like heavy-lidded eyes, and her breath doth reek with wine, last drunk by a merry party there.

The lamp, now blacked and dead, could boast to ye of part to many an undoing of the unwary. The roof, o’er-hanging and bepeaked, doth ’mind ye of a sleeper in his cap.

The mist now rises like a curtain, and over yonder steeple peeps the sun, his face washed fresh in the basin of the night. His beams now light the dark beneath the palsied stair, and rag and straw doth heave to belch forth its baggage for the night.

---

(Fool) “Eh, gad! ’Tis morn, Beppo. Come, up, ye vermin; laugh and prove thou art the fool’s. An ape and jackass are wearers of the cap and bells. Thou wert fashioned with a tail to wear behind, and I to spin a tale to leave but not to wear. For the sayings of the fool are purchased by the wise. My crooked back and pegs are purses—the price to buy my gown; but better far, Beppo, to hunch and yet to peer into the clouds, than be as strong as knights are wont to be, and belly, like a snake, amongst the day’s bright hours.

“Here, eat thy crust. ’Tis funny-bread, the earnings of a fool.

“I looked at Lisa as she rode her mount at yesternoon, and saw her skirt the road with anxious eyes. Dost know for whom she sought, Beppo? Not me, who, breathless, watched behind a flowering bush to hide my ugliness. Now laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s!

“But ’neath these stripes of color I did feel new strength, and saw me strided on a black beside her there. And, Beppo, knave, thou didst but rattle at thy chain, and lo, the shrinking of my dream!

“But we do limp quite merrily, and could we sing our song in truer measure—thou the mimic, and I the fool? Thine eyes hold more for me than all the world, since hers do see me not.

“We two together shall flatten ’neath the tree in yonder field and ride the clouds, Beppo, I promise ye, at after hour of noon.

“See! Tonio has slid the shutter’s bolt! I’ll spin a song and bart him for a sup.”

---

(Tonio) “So, baggage, thou hast slept aneath the smell thou lovest best!”

(Fool) “Oh, morrow, Tonio. The smell is weak as yester’s unsealed wine. My tank doth tickle with the dust of rust, and yet methinks thou would’st see my slattern stays to rattle like dry bones, to please thee. See, Beppo cryeth! Fetch me then a cup that I may catch the drops—or, here, I’ll milk the dragon o’er thy door!”

(Tonio) “Thou scrapple! Come within. ’Tis he who loveth not the fool who doth hate his God.”

(Fool) “I’m loth to leave my chosen company. Come, Beppo, his words are hard, but we do know his heart.

“A health to thee, Antonio. Put in thy wine one taste of thy heart’s brew and I need not wish ye well.

“To her, Beppo. Come, dip and take a lick.

“Tonio, hast heard that at a time not set as yet the tournament will be? Who think ye rides the King’s lance and weareth Lisa’s colors? Blue, Tonio, and gold, the heavens’ garb—stop, Beppo, thou meddling pest! Antonio, I swear those bits of cloth are but patches I have pilfered from the ragheap adown the alleyway. I knew not they were blue. And this is but a tassel dropt from off a lance at yester’s ride. I knew not of its tinselled glint, I swear!

“So, thou dost laugh? Ah, Beppo, see, he laughs! And we too, eh? But do we laugh the same? Come, jump! Thy pulpit is my hump. Aday, Antonio!”

(Antonio) “Aday, thou fool, and would I had the wisdom of thy ape.”

---

(Lisa) “Aday, fool!”

(Fool) “Ah, lady fair, hath lost the silver of thy laugh, and dost thee wish me then to fetch it thee?”

(Lisa) “Yea, jester. Thou speaketh wisely; for may I ripple laughter from a sorry heart? Now tease me, then.”

(Fool) “A crooked laugh would be thy gift should I tease it with a crooked tale; and, lady, didst thee e’er behold a crooked laugh—one which holds within its crook a tear?”

(Lisa) “Oh, thou art in truth a fool. I’d bend the crook and strike the tear away.”

(Fool) “Aye, lady, so thou wouldst. But thou hast ne’er yet found thy lot to bear a crook held staunch within His hand! Spring rain would be thy tears—a balm to buy fresh beauties. And the fool? Ah, his do dry in dust, e’en before they fall!”

(Lisa) “Pish, jester, thy tears would paint thy face to crooked lines, and thee wouldst laugh to see the muck. My heart doth truly sorry. Hast heard the King hath promised me as wages for the joust? And thee dost know who rideth ’gainst my chosen?”

(Fool) “Aye, lady, the crones do wag, and I do promise ye they wear their necks becricked to see his palfrey pass. They do tell me that his sumpter-cloth doth trail like a ladies’ robe.”

(Lisa) “Yea, fool, and pledge me thy heart to tell it not, I did broider at its hem a thrush with mine own tress—a song to cheer his way, a wing to speed him on.”

(Fool) “Hear, Beppo, how she prates! Would I were a posey wreath and Beppo here a fashioner of song. We then would lend us to thy hand to offer as a token. But thou dost know a fool and ape are ever but a fool and ape. I’m off to chase thy truant laugh. Who cometh there? The dust doth rise like storm-cloud along the road ahead, and ’tis shot with glinting. Oh, I see the mantling flush of morning put to shame by the flushing of thy cheek! See, he doth ride with helmet ope. Its golden bars do clatter at the jolt, and—but stop, Beppo, she heareth not! We, poor beggars, thee and me—an ape with a tail and a fool with a heart!

“See, Beppo, I did tear a rose to tatters but to fling its petals ’neath her feet. They tell me that his lance doth bear a ribband blue and a curling lock of gold—and yet he treads the earth! Let’s then away!

“Beppo, laugh, and prove thyself the fool’s! I fain would feel the yoke, lest I step too high.

“Come, we’ll seek the shelt’ring tree. I’ve in my kit a bit of curd. Thy conscience need not prick. I swear that Tonio, the rogue, did see me stow it there!

“Ah, me, ’tis such a home for fools, the earth. And they that are not fools are apes.

“I see the crowd bestringing ’long the road, and yonder clarion doth bid the riders come. Well, Beppo, do we ride? Come, chere, we may tramp our crooked path and ride astraddle of a cloud.

“She doth love him, then; and even now the horn doth sound anew—and she the prize!

“I call the God above to see the joke that fate hath played; for I do swear, Beppo, that when he rides he carries on his lance-point this heart.

“I fret me here, but dare I see the play? Yea, ’tis a poor fool that loveth not his jest.

“I go, Beppo; I know not why, save I do love her so.

“I’ll bear my hunch like a badge of His colors and I shall laugh, Beppo, shall laugh at losing. He loves me well, else why didst send me thee?

“The way seems over long.

“They parry at the ring! I see her veil to float like cloud upon the breeze.

“She sees me not. I wonder that she heareth not the thumping of my heart. My eyes do mist. Beppo, look thou! Ah, God, to see within her eyes the look of thine!

“They rank! And hell would cool my brow, I swear. Beppo, as thou lovest me, press sorely on my hump! Her face, Beppo, it swayeth everywhere, as a garden thick with bloom—a lily, white and glistening with a rain of tears. My heart hath torn asunder, that I know.

“The red knight now doth cast! O Heaven turn his lance!

“’Tis put!

“And now the blue and gold! Wait, brother ape! Hold, in the name of God! Straight! ’Tis tie! Can I but stand?

“I—ah, lady, he doth ride full well. May I but steady thee? My legs are wobbled but—my hand, dear lady, lest ye sink.

(”Beppo, ’tis true she seeth me!)

“Thy hand is cold. I wager you he wins. He puts a right too high. Thy thrush is singing; hear ye not his song? His wing doth flutter even now. Ah, he is fitting thee——

“I do but laugh to feel the tickle of a feathering jest. An age before he puts! A miss! A tie! Ah, lady, should’st thee win I’ll laugh anew and even then will laugh at what thee knowest not.

“The red knight! God weight his charger’s hoof! (My God, Beppo, she did kiss my hand!)

“He’s off! Beppo, cling!”

(Lisa) “The fool! Look ye, the fool and ape! Oh heaven stop their flight! He’s well upon them! Blind me, lest I die! He’s charged anew, but missed! What, did his mantle fall? That shape that lieth! Come!”

(Lisa, to her knight) “So, thou, beloved, didst win me right! Where go they with the litter?”

(Knight) “The fool, my lady, and a chattering ape, did tempt to jest a charger in the field. We found them so. He lives but barely.”

(Fool) “Aday, my lady fair! And hast thee lost the silver of thy laugh and bid me fetch it thee? The world doth hold but fools and lovers, folly sick.”

(Lisa) “His eye grows misty. Fool, I know thee as a knave and love thee as a man.”

(Fool) “’Tis but a patch, Beppo, a patch and tassel from a lance ... but we did ride, eh? Laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s! I laugh anew, lest my friends should know me not. Beppo, I dream of new roads, but thou art there! And I do faint, but she ... did kiss my hand.... Aday ... L—a—d—y.”

---

Very soon after the completion of this story Patience began another one, a Christmas story, a weird, mystical tale of medieval England, having for its central theme a “Stranger” who is visible only to Lady Marye of the Castle. The stranger is not described, nor does he speak a word, but he is presumedly the Christ. There are descriptions of the preparations for the Christmas feast at this lordly stronghold of baronial days, and the coarse wit of the castle servants and the drunken profanity of their master, “John the Peaceful,” form a vivid contrast to the ethereal Lady Marye and the simple love of the herder’s family at the foot of the hill. There are striking characters and many beautiful lines in this story, but it is not as closely woven nor as coherent in plot as the story of the fool and the lady.

’Twas at white season o’ the year, the shrouding o’ spring and summerstide.

Steep, rugged, was the path, and running higher on ahead to turret-topped and gated castle o’ the lordly state o’ John the Peaceful, where Lady Marye whiled away the dragging day at fingering the regal.^[2]

From sheltered niche she looked adown the hillside stretching ’neath. The valley was bestir. A shepherd chided with gentle word his flock, and gentle folk did speak o’ coming Christ-time. Timon, the herder’s hut, already hung with bitter sweets, and holly and fir boughs set to spice the air.

---

“Timon, man, look ye to the wee lambs well, for winter promiseth a searching night.”

Thus spake Leta, who stands, her babe astride her hip.

“And come ye then within. I have a brew that of a truth shall tickle at thy funny bone. Bring then a bundle o’ brush weed that we may ply the fire. I vow me thy boots are snow carts, verily!

“Hast seen the castle folk? And fetched ye them the kids? They breathe it here that the boar they roast would shame a heiffer. All of the sparing hours today our Leta did sniff her up the hill; nay, since the dawning she hath spread her smock and smirked.

“Leta, thou art such a joy! Thou canst wish the winter-painted bough to bloom, and like the plum flowers falls the snow. Fetch thee a bowl and put the bench to table-side. Thy sire wouldst sup. Go now and watch aside the crib. Perchance thee’lt catch a glimpse o’ heaven spilled from Tina’s dream.

“Timon, man, tell me now the doings o’ the day. I do ettle^[3] for a spicey tale.”

(Timon) “Well, be it so then, minx. I did fell the kids at sun-wake, and thee’lt find the skins aneath the cape I cast in yonder corner there. And I did catch a peep aslaunch^[4] at mad Lady Marye, who did play the pipes most mournfully. They tell me she doth look a straining to this cot of ours. And what think ye, Leta? She doth only smile when she doth see our wee one’s curls to glint. And ever she doth speak of him who none hath seen. ’Tis strange, think ye not?”

(Leta) “Nay, Timon, I full oft do pause and peer on high to see her at the summertide. Like a swan she bendeth, all white, amid her garden ’long the lake, and even ’tempts to come adown the path to us below. And ever at her heels the pea-fowl struts.

“She ne’er doth see my beckoning, but do I come with Tina at my breast she doth smile and wave and sway her arms a-cradle-wise.

“They tell, but breathlessly, that she doth sadly say the Stranger bideth here.”

(Timon) “I’ll pit my patch ’gainst purse o’ gold, that ‘Mad Marye’ fitteth her as surely as ‘Peaceful John’ doth fit her sire. Thee knowest ’peace’ to him is of his cutting, and ’piece’ doth patch his ripping.

“They’ve bid a feast at Christ-night, and ye shouldst see the stir! I fain would see Sir John at good dark on that eve, besmeared with boar grease and soaked with ale, his mouth adrip with filth, and every peasant there who serves his bolts shall hit. And Lady Marye setteth like a lily under frost!

“Leta, little one, thine eyes do blink like stars beshadowed in a cloudy veil. Come, bend thy knee and slip away to dream!”

(Little Leta prays) “Vast blue above, wherein the angels hide; and moon, his lamp o’ love; and cloud fleece white—art thou the wool to swaddle Him? And doth His mother bide upon a star-beam that leadeth her to thee? I bless Thy name and pray Thee keep my sire to watch full well his flock. And put a song in every coming day; my Tina’s coo, and mother’s song at eve. Goodnight, sweet night! I know He watcheth thee and me.”

(Timon) “He heareth thee, my Leta. Watch ye the star on high. See ye, it winketh knowingly. God rest ye, blest.”

(Lady Marye) “And I the Lady Marye, o’ the lord’s estate! Jana, fetch me a goblet that I drink.”

(Jana) “Aye, lady. A wine, perchance?”

(Lady Marye) “Nay, for yester thou didst fetch me wine, and I did cast it here upon the flags. Its stain thee still canst see. Shouldst thou fetch a goblet filled to brim with crystal drops, and I should cast it here, the greedy stone would sup it up, and where be then the stain? Think ye the stone then the wiser o’ the two?

“I but loosed my fancy from its tether to gambol at its will, and they do credit me amiss. I weave not with strand upon a wheel. ’Tis not my station. Nay, I dally through the day with shuttle-cock and regal—a fitting play for yonder babe.

“Jana, peer ye to the valley there. Doth see the Stranger? He knocketh at the sill o’ yonder cot.

“I saw him when the cotter locked the sheep to tap a straying ewe who lagged, and he did enter as the cotter stepped within—unbidden, Jana, that I swear—and now he knocketh there!”

(Jana) “Nay, lady, ’tis but a barish limb that reacheth o’er the door. The cotter heedeth not, ye see.”

(Lady Marye) “I do see him now to enter, and never did he turn! Jana, look ye now! Doth still befriend a doubt?”

(Jana) “Come, lady, look! Sirrah John hath sent ye this, a posey, wrought o’ gold and scented with sweet oils.”

(Lady Marye) “Ah, Jana, ’tis a hateful sight to me—a posey I may keep! Why, the losing o’ the blossom doth but make it dear!

“Stay! I know thee’lt say ’twas proffered with his love. But, Jana, thou hast much to learn. What, then, is love? Can I then sort my tinder for its building and ply the glass to start its flame? The day is o’er full now of ones who tried the trade. Nay, Jana, only when He toucheth thee and bids thee come and putteth to thy hand His own doth love abide with thee.

“Come to the turret, then. I do find me whetted for a look within.

“How cool the eve! ’Tis creepy to the marrow. Look ye down the hillside there below. See ye the cotter’s taper burning there? How white the night! ’Tis put upon the earth a mantling shroud, and sailing in the silver sky a fairy boat. Perchance it bringeth us the Babe.

“Jana, see’st thou the Stranger? He now doth count the sheep. Dare I trust him there? I see him fondling a lamb and he doth hold it close unto his breast.”

(Jana) “Nay, lady, ’tis the shepherd’s dog who skulketh now ahind the shelter wall.”

(Lady Marye) “Ah, give me, spite o’ this, the power to sing like Thine own bird who swayeth happily upon the forest bough and pours abroad his song where no man heareth him.

“Hear ye them below within the hall? They do lap at swine-broth. Their cups do clank. At morrow’s eve they feast and now do need to stretch their paunches. Full often have I seen my ladye mother’s white robe stained crimson for a jest, and oftener have I been gagged to swallow it. But, Jana, I do laugh, for the greatest jest is he who walloweth in slime and thinketh him a fish.”

(Jana) “See, Lady Marye! This, thy mother’s oaken chest, it still doth bear a scent o’ her. And this, thy gown o’ her own fashioning.”

(Lady Marye) “Yea, Jana, and this o’ her, a strand wound to a ball for mine own casting. And this! I tell thee, ’tis oft and oft she did press me to her own breast and chide me with her singing voice: ‘My Marye, ’tis a game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours o’ seeking happiness. When ye would catch the rogue he flitteth on.’

“See, these spots o’ yellowed tears—the rusting of her heart away! Stay, Jana, I’ll teach thee a trick o’ tripping, for she full oft did say a heart could hide aneath a tripping.

“Thee shouldst curtsey so; and spread thy fan. ’Tis such a shield to hide ahind. Then shouldst thy heart to flutter, trip out its measure, so. See, I do laugh me now—nay, ’tis ne’er a tear, Jana, ’tis the mist o’ loving! Doth see the moon hath joined the dance? Or, am I swooning? ’Tis fancy. See, the cotter’s taper still doth flicker from the shutter. What’s then amiss? The stranger, Jana! See! He entereth the shelter place! Come, I fear me lest I see too much? Lend me thy hand. I’ve played the jane-o-apes till the earth doth seem awry.

“Hear ye the wine-soaked song, and aye, the feed-drunkened? My sire, Jana, my sire! I do grow hateful of myself, but mark ye, at the setting o’ the feast I do wage him war at words! A porridge pot doth brew for babes; I promise ye a full loaf. Do drop the curtain now, I weary me with reasoning.”

(Tito) “Aho, within! Thine eyes begummed and this the Christ-eve and mornin’ come? Scatter! Petro, stand ahand! I do fetch ye sucklings agagged with apples red. Ye gad, my mouth doth slime! To whiff a hungerfull would make the sages wag.”

(Petro) “Amorrow, Tito. Thee’lt wear thee white as our own Lady long afore ye e’en canst dip thy finger in the drip.”

(Tito) “Pst! Petro, I did steal the brain and tung. Canst leave me have a peep now to the hall? Jesu! What a breeder o’ sore bellies. I’d pay my price to heaven to rub Sir John a briskish rub with mullien o’er the back.

“They do tell me down below that trouble bideth Timon. His Tina layeth dull and Leta doth little but mumble prayer.”

(Petro) “Tito, thee art a chanter of sad lays at this Christ-time. Go thou to the turret and play ye at the pipes. Put thee the sucklings to the kitchen, aside the fire dogs there. And Tito, thee’lt find a pudding pan ahind the brushbox. Go thee and lick it there!”

(To Sir John) “Aye, I do come, my lord. ’Tis but the sucklers come. I know not where in the castle she doth bide, but hark ye and ye’ll surely hear the pipes.”

(Sir John) “Bah! Damn the drivelling pipes! I do hear them late and early. ’Tis a fine bird for a lordly nest! Go, fetch her here! But no, I’d tweak her at a vaster sitting. Get thee, thou grunting swine! And take this as thy Christ-gift. I’d deal thee thrice the measure wert not to save these lordly legs. Here, fetch me a courser. I’d ride me to the hounds. And strip him of his foot cloth, that I do waste me not a blow. Dost like the smart? Or shall I ply it more? Thee’lt dance to tune, or damn ye, run from cuts!

“Ho, Timon, how goes it with the brat? The world’s o’erfull o’ cattle now!”

(Timon) “Yea, sire, so did my Leta say when she did see thee come. ’Tis with our Tina as a bird behovered in the day. Aday, and God forgive thee.”

(Lady Marye) “Jana, morn hath come. ’Tis Christ-tide and He not here! My limbs do fail, and how do I then to stand me thro’ the day? The feast, the feast, yea, the feast! The day doth break thro’ fog in truth!

“My mother’s bridal robe! Go, Jana, fetch it me, and one small holly bough. Lend me a hand. I fain would see the cot.

“See thou! The sun doth love it, too, and chooseth him to rise him o’er its roof! Hath thee seen the herder yet to buckle loose the shelter place? And, Jana, did all seem well to thee? Nay, the Stranger, Jana! See, he still doth hold the lamb! ‘My Marye, ’tis a game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours.’ In truth, ’tis put.

“Jana, I did dream me like a babe the night hours through; a dream so sweet, o’ vast blue above wherein the angels hid, and I did see the Christ-child swaddled in a cloud; and Mary, maid of sorrows, led to him adown a silver beam.

“Then thee dost deem my fitful fancy did but play me false? Stay thou, my tears, and, heart o’ me, who knoweth He doth watch o’er thee and me?

“Her robe! Ah, Fancy, ’tis thy right that thou art ever doubted. For thou art a conjurer, a trickster, verily. What chamming^[5] joy didst thee then offer her?

“Thou cloud of billowed lace, a shield befitting her pure heart! And I the flowering of the bud! Hear me, all this o’ her! I love thee well, and should the day but offer a bitter draft to quaff, ’tis but to whet me for a sweeter drink. And mother, heart o’ me, hearken and do believe. I love my sire, Sir John.

“Come, Jana. Hear ye the carolers? Their song doth filter thro’ my heart and lighten it. The snow doth tweak aneath their feet like pipes to ’company them. Cast ye a bit o’ holly and a mistletoe.

“The feasters come to whet them with a pudding whiff. See, my sire doth ride him up the hill and o’er his saddle front a fallow deer. Hear thee the cheering that he comes! Her loved, my Jana, and her heart doth beat through me!

“Christ-love to thee, my sire! Dost hear me here? And I do pledge it thee upon His precious drops caught by the holly tree. He seeth not, but she doth know!”

(Jana) “My lady, who doth come a knocking at the door? ’Tis Petro, come to bid ye to the feast.”

(Petro) “The candles are long since lit and Sirrah John hath wearyed him with jest. The feasting hath not yet begun, for he doth wait thee to drink a health to feasters in the hall.”

(Lady Marye) “Yea, Petro, say unto my sire, the Lady Marye comes. And say ye more, she bids the feasters God-love. And say thee more, she doth bear the blessings of her Lady Mother who wisheth God’s love to them all. And fetch ye candle trees to scores, and fetch the dulcimer and one who knocketh on its strings, and let him patter forth a lively tune, for Lady Marye comes.

“Jana, look ye once again to the valley there. The tapers burn not for Christ-night. Nay, a sickly gleam, and see, the Stranger, how he doth hold the lamb! And o’er his face a smile—or do my eyes beblur, and doth he weep?”

(Jana) “Nay, lady, all is dark. ’Tis but the whitish snow and shadow pitted by the tapers’ light.”

(Lady Marye) “Fetch me then my fan. I go to meet my Lord. Doth hear? Already they do play. I point me thus, and trip my heart’s full measure.”

(Sir John) “So, lily-lip, thee’lt scratch! Thy silky paw hath claws, eh? Egad! A phantom! A ghoulish trick! My head doth split and where my tung? Get ye! Why sit like grinning asses! And where thy tungs? My God! What scent o’ graves she beareth with that shroud!”

(Lady Marye) “God cheer, my lord, and doth my tripping suit thee well? These flags are but my heart and hers, and do I bruise them well for thee? Ah, aha! See, I do spread my fan. To shield my tears, ye think? Nay, were they to fall like Mayday’s rain and thee wert buried ’neath a stone, as well then could’st thou see! And yet I love thee well. See thee, my sire, I pour this to thee!

“Look ye, good people at the feast; the boar is ready to slip its bones.

(Aside) “God, send Thy mantling love here to Thine own! For should I judge, when Thou I know dost love the saint and sinner as Thine own?

“To thee, my sire, to thee!”

---

And gusted wind did flick the tapers out and they did hear her murmuring “The Stranger! He doth bid me come!”

And to this day they tell that Lady Marye cast the wine into a suckler’s mouth and never did she drink!

“By all the saints! Do thee go and search!”

Thus spake her sire, Sir John. And all the long night thro’ the torches gleamed, but all in vain. And they do say that Sirrah John did shake him in a chilling and flee him to a friar, while still the search did last.

(Leta) “Timon, waken ye! Our Leta still doth court her dreams and I do weary me. The long night thro’ the feasters cried them thro’ the hills and none but Him could shield our Tina from their din.

“Take heart, my lad, I fear me yet to look within the crib. Hold thou my hand, man. Nay, not yet! Come, waken Leta that she then do feed thy lambs.”

(Timon) “Come, Leta, wake! The sun hath tipped the crown o’ yonder hill and spread a blush adown her snow-white side.”

(Leta) “Yea, sire. And Tina, how be she?”

(Timon) “A fairy, sleeping, Tad.”

(Leta) “Ah, sire, but I did dream the dark o’ yesterday away. And, mother, she doth strain unto the sun! I see her eyes be-glistened. See, the frost-cart dumped beside our door, and look ye! he, the Frost man, put a cap upon the chimney pot. I’ll fetch a brush and fan away his cloak. My Christ-gift, it would be my Tina’s smile. She did know me not at late o’ night; think ye it were the dark? Stay, sire! I’ll cast the straw and put the sheep aright!” (Exit.)

---

(Timon) “My Leta, come! Thy Christ-gift bideth o’er our Tina’s lips and she doth coo!”

(Leta) “Timon, call aloud, that she heareth thee. Leta! Leta! Little one! Dost hear thy sire to call? Why, what’s amiss with thee? Thy staring eyes, my child! Speak thou!”

(Leta) “Sh-e-e-e! Sire, His mother’s come! And, ah, my heart! All white she be an’ crushed unto her breast a holly bough, and one white arm doth circle o’er a lamb! See, sire, the snow did drift it thro’ and weave a fairy robe to cover her.”

(Timon) “Who leaveth by the door; a stranger?”

(Leta) “Nay, He bideth here.”

(Timon) “The Lady Marye, on my soul! Leta, drop ye here thy tears, for madness bideth loosed upon the earth! And shouldst——”

(Leta) “Nay, sire! Who cometh there?”

---

And searchers there did find the Lady Marye, dead, amid the lambs and snow—a flowering o’ the rose upon a bush o’ thorn.

And hark ye! At the time when winter’s blast doth sound, thee’lt hear the wailing o’ the Lady Marye’s pipes, and know the Stranger bideth o’er the earth.

The two dramatic stories presented here were but a paving of the way for larger work. “The Stranger” had been hardly completed when Patience announced, “Thee’lt sorry at the task I set thee next.” And then she began the construction of a drama that in its delivery consumed the time of the sittings for several weeks, and it contained when finished some 20,000 words. It is divided into six acts, each with a descriptive prologue, and three of the acts have two scenes each, making nine scenes in all. It, like the two shorter sketches, is medieval in scene, and the pictures which it presents of the customs and costumes and manners of the thirteenth or fourteenth century (the period is not definitely indicated) are amazingly vivid. It has a somewhat intricate plot, which is carried forward rapidly and its strands skillfully interwoven until the nature of the fabric is revealed in the sixth act. This play is much more skillfully constructed in respect of stage technique than the two playlets that preceded it, and it could, no doubt, be produced upon the stage with perhaps a little alteration to adapt it to modern conditions. Some idea of its beauty, its sprightliness and its humor may be obtained from the prologue to the first act, which follows:

Wet earth, fresh trod.

Highway cut to wrinkles with cart wheels born in with o’erloading. A flank o’ daisy flowers and stones rolled o’er in blanketing o’ moss. Brown o’ young oak-leaves shows soft amid the green. Adown a steep unto the vale, hedged in by flowering fruit and threaded through with streaming silver o’ the brook, where rushes shiver like to swishing o’ a lady’s silk.

Moss-lipped log doth case the spring who mothereth the brook, and ivy hath climbed it o’er the trunk and leafless branch o’ yonder birch, till she doth stand bedecked as for a folly dance.

From out the thick where hides the logged and mud-smeared shack.

The play then begins with the tanner and his apprentice, and the action soon leads to the royal castle, where the exquisite love story is developed, without a love scene. There is no tragedy in the story. It is all sentiment, and humor. And it is filled with poetry. Consider, for example, this description of Easter morn, from the prologue to the sixth act:

The earth did wake with boughs aburst. A deadened apple twig doth blush at casting Winter’s furry coat, to find her naked blooms abath in sun. The feathered hosts, atuned, do carol, “He hath risen!” E’en the crow with envy trieth melody and soundeth as a brass; and listening, loveth much his song. Young grasses send sweet-scented damp through the hours of risen day. The bell, atoll, doth bid the village hence. E’en path atraced through velvet fields hath flowered with fringing bloom and jeweled drops, atempting tarriers. The sweet o’ sleep doth grace each venturing face. The kine stand knee depth within the silly-tittered brook, or deep in bog awallow. Soft breath ascent and lazy-eyed, they wait them for the stripping-maid.

The play is permeated with rich humor, and to illustrate this I give a bit of the dialogue between Dougal, the page, and Anne, the castle cook. To appreciate it one must know a little of the story. The hand of the Princess Ermaline is sought by Prince Charlie, a doddering old rake, whom she detests, but whom for reasons of state she may be compelled to accept. However, she vows she will not speak while he is at court, nor does she utter a word, in the play, until the end of the last act. She has fallen in love with a troubadour, who has come from no one knows where, but who by his grace and his wit and his intelligence has made himself a favorite with all the castle folk. Anne has a roast on the spit, and is scouring a pot with sand and rushes, when Dougal enters the kitchen.

Dougal.—“Anne, goody girl, leave me but suck a bone. My sides have withered and fallen in, in truth.”

Anne.—“Get ye, Dougal! Thy footprints do show them in grease like to the Queen’s seal upon my floor!”

Dougal.—“The princess hath bidden me to stay within her call, but she doth drouse, adrunk on love-lilt o’ the troubadour, and Prince of Fools (Prince Charlie) hath gone long since to beauty sleep. He tied unto his poster a posey wreath, and brushed in scented oils his beauteous locks, and sung a lay to Ermaline, and kissed a scullery wench afore he slept.”

Anne.—“The dog! I’d love a punch to shatter him! And Ermaline hath vowed to lock her lips and pass as mute until his going.”

Dougal.—“Yea, but eye may speak, for hers do flash like lightning, and though small, her foot doth fall most weighty to command.

“Yester, the Prince did seek her in the throne room. He’d tied his kerchief to a sack and filled it full o’ blue-bells, and minced him ’long the halls astrewing blossoms and singing like to a frozen pump.

“Within the chamber, Ermaline did hide her face in dreading to behold him come, but at the door he spied the dear and bounded like a puppy ’cross the flags, apelting her with blooms and sputtering ’mid tee-hees. She, tho’, did spy him first, and measured her his sight and sudden slipped her ’neath the table shroud. And he, Anne, I swear, sprawled him in his glee and rose to find her gone. And whacked my shin, the ass, acause I heaved at shoulders.”

Anne.—“Ah, Dougal, ’tis a weary time, in truth. Thee hadst best to put it back, to court thy mistress’ whim. Good sleep, ye! And Dougal, I have a loving for the troubadour. Whence cometh he?”

Dougal.—“Put thy heart to rest, good Anne; he’s but a piper who doth knock the taber’s end and coaxeth trembling strings by which to sing. He came him out o’ nothing, like to the night or day. We waked to hear him singing ’neath the wall.”

Anne.—“Aye, but I do wag! For surely thee doth see how Ermaline doth court his song.”

Dougal.—“Nay, Anne, ’tis but to fill an empty day.”

---

When Patience had finished this she preened herself a little. “Did I not then spin a lengthy tale?” she asked. But immediately she began work upon another, a story of such length that it alone will make a book. It differs in many respects from her other works, particularly in the language, and from a literary standpoint is altogether the most amazing of her compositions. This, too, is dramatic in form, but scene often merges into scene without division, and it has more of the characteristics of the modern story. It is, however, medieval, but it is a tale of the fields, primarily, the heroine, Telka, being a farm lass, and the hero a field hand. Perhaps this is why the obscure dialectal forms of rural England of a time long gone by are woven into it. In this Patience makes an astonishingly free use of the prefix “a,” in place of a number of prefixes, such as “be” and “with,” now commonly used, and she attaches it to nouns and verbs and adjectives with such frequency as to make this usage a prominent feature of the diction. Let me introduce Telka in the words of Patience:

“Dewdamp soggeth grasses laid low aneath the blade at yester’s harvest, and thistle-bloom weareth at its crown a jewelled spray.

“Brown thrush, nested ’neath the thick o’ yonder shrub, hath preened her wings full long aneath the tender warmth o’ morning sun.

“Afield the grasses glint, and breeze doth seeming set aflow the current o’ a green-waved stream.

“Soft-footed strideth Telka, bare toes asink in soft earth and bits o’ green acling, bedamped, unto her snowy limbs. Smocked brown and aproned blue, she seemeth but a bit o’ earth and sky alight amid the field. Asplit at throat, the smock doth show a busom like to a sheen o’ fleecy cloud aveiling o’er the sun’s first flush.

“Betanned the cheek, and tresses bleached by sun at every twist of curl. Strong hands do clasp a branch long dead and dried, at end bepronged, and casteth fresh-cut blades to heap.”

Such is Telka in appearance. “She seemeth but a bit o’ earth and sky alight amid the field.” Seemeth, yes, but there is none of the sky in Telka. She is of the earth, earthy, an intensely practical young woman, industrious, economical, but with no sense of beauty whatever, no imagination, no thought above the level of the ground. “I fashioned jugs o’ clay,” her father complained, “and filled with bloom, and she becracked their necks and kept the swill therein.” Add to this a hot temper and a sharp tongue, and the character of Telka is revealed. Franco, the lover, on the other hand, is an artist and poet, although a field worker. He has been reared, as a foundling, by the friars in the neighboring monastery, and they have taught him something of the arts of mosaics and the illumination of missals. Between these two is a constant conflict of the material and the spiritual, and the theme of the story is the spiritual regeneration or development of Telka.

“See,” says Franco, “Yonder way-rose hath a bloom! She be a thrifty wench and hath saved it from the spring.”

Telka.—“I hate the thorned thing. Its barb hath pricked my flesh and full many a rent doth show it in my smock.”

Franco.—“Ah, Telka, thine eyes do look like yonder blue and shimmer like to brooklet’s breast.”

Telka.—“The brooklet be bestoned, and muddied by the swine. Thy tung doth trip o’er pretty words.”

Franco.—“But list, Telka, I would have thee drink from out my cup!”

Telka.—“Ah, show me then the cup.”

And Telka’s father, a wise old man, cautions Franco:

“Thee hadst best to take a warning, Franco. She be o’ the field and rooted there; and thee o’ the field, but reaped, and bound to free thee of the chaff by flailing of the world. She then would be to thee but straw and waste to cast awhither.”

But an understanding of the nature of this strange tale and its peculiar dialect requires a longer extract. The “Story of the Judge Bush” will serve, better perhaps than anything else, to convey an idea of the characters of Telka and Franco, as well as to illustrate the language; and the episode is interesting in itself. The dialogue opens with Telka, Franco and Marion on their way to Telka’s hut. Marion is Telka’s dearest friend, although one gets a contrary impression from Telka’s caustic remarks in this excerpt; but unlike Telka, she can understand and appreciate the poetic temperament of Franco. To show her contempt for Franco’s aspirations, Telka has taken his color pots and buried them in a dung-heap, and this characteristic act is the foundation of the “Story of the Judge Bush.”

(Franco) “Come, we do put us to a-dry. ’Tis sky aweep, and ’tis a gray day from now. I tell thee, Telka, we then put us to hearth, and spin ye shall. And thou, Marion, shalt bake an ash loaf and put o’ apples for to burst afore the fire. ’Tis chill, the whine-wind o’ the storm. We then shall spin a tale by turn; and Telka, lass, I plucked a sweet bloom for thee to wear. Thine eye hath softened, eh, my lass? Here, set thy nose herein and thou canst ne’er to think a tho’t besoured.”

(Telka) “Ah, ’tis a wise lad I wed, who spendeth o’ his stacking hours to pluck weed, and thee wouldst have me sniff the dung-dust from their leaf. Do cast them whither, and ’pon thy smock do wipe thy hand. It be my fancy for to waste the gray hours aside the fire’s glow,—but, Franco, see ye, the wee pigs asqueal! ’Tis nay liking the wet. Do fetch them hence. Here, Marion, cast my cape about thee, since thou dost wear thy pettiskirt and Sabboth smock. Gad! Blue maketh thee to match a plucked goose. Thy skin already hath seamed, I vow. And, Marion, ’tis ’deed a flash to me thy tress be red! Should I to bear a red top I’d cast it whither.”

(Franco) “Telka, Telka, drat thy barbed tung! Cast thou the bolt. Gad! What a scent o’ browning joint!”

(Telka) “Do leave me for to turn the spit that I may lick the finger-drip. Thy nose, Franco, doth trick thee. Thou canst sniff o’ dung-dust and scoff at drip. Go, roll the apples o’er in yonder pile. They then would suit thee well!”

(Franco) “Telka, I bid thee to wash away such tunging. Here, I set them so. Now do I to fetch thy wheel. Nay, Marion, do cast thy blush. ’Tis but the Telka witch. Do thou to start thee at thy tale aspin.”

(Telka) “Aye, Marion, thou then, since ne’er truth knoweth thee, thou shouldst ne’er to lack for story. Story do I say? Aye, or lie, ’tis brothers they be. And, Franco, do thou to spin, ’twill suit thy taste to feed ’pon maid’s fare. I be the spinner o’ the tale afirst. But, Franco, I fain would have thee fetch a pair o’ harkers. Didst deem to fret me that thee dumped the twain aneath the stack? Go thou and fetch. ’Tis well that thee shouldst bed with swine lest thee be preening for a swan.”

(Franco) “Ugh, Telka! Thou art like to a vat o’ wine awork. Thou’lt fetch the swine do ye seek to company them.”

(Telka) “So well, Polly, I do go, for ’tis swine o’ worth amore than color daub. Set thee, since thou be wench.”

(Franco) “Look ye, Telka, ’tis here I cast the cloak and show thee metal abared. Thou hast ridden ’pon a high nag for days, and I do kick his hock and set him at a limp. Do thou to clip thy words ashort or I do cast a stone athro’ thy bubble.”

(Telka) “Ah, Franco, ’tis nay meaning! Put here. Do spin thy tale, but do ye first to leave me fetch the wee-squeals. Then I do be a tamed dove. See ye?”

(Franco) “Away, then, and fetch thee back ahurry.” (Exit Telka.)

(Franco) “Marion, ’tis what that I should put as path to tread? She be awronged but do I feed the fires, or put a stop?”

(Marion) “Franco, ’tis a pot and stew she loveth. Think ye to coax thy dream-forms from out the pot? Telka arounded and awrathed be like unto a thunder-storm, but Telka less the wrath and round, be Winter’s dreary.”

(Franco) “Not so, Marion, I shall then call forth the ghosts o’ painted pots and touch the dreary abloom. Didst thou e’er to slit thy eye and view thro’ afar? Dost thou then behold the motes? So, then, shall I to view the Telka maid. Whist! Here she be! Aback, Telka? Come, I itch for to spin a tale. Sit thee here and dry the wet sparkles from thy curls. List, do!

“’Twere a peddle-packer who did stroll adown the blade-strewn path along the village edge, abent. And brow-shagged eye did hide a twinkle-mirth aneath——”

“E-e-ek! E-e-e-k!”

(Telka) “Look, Franco, see they ’e-e-e-k’ do I to pull their tails uncurl!”

(Franco) “Do ye then wish thee, Telka, for to play upon their one-string lyre, or do I put ahead?”

“Bestrung, aborder o’ the road, the cots send smoke-wreathes up to join the cloud. ’Twere sup-hour, and drip afrazzle soundeth thro’ the doors beope, like to a water-cachit aslipping thro’ dry leaf to pool aneath. Do I then put it clear?”

(Telka) “Yea, Franco, what hath he in his pack? I’d put a gander for a frock!”

(Marion) “On, Franco, thy tale hath a lilt.”

(Franco) “Awag-walk he weaveth to the door afirst-hand. The wee lads and lass do cluster ’bout the door, and twist atween their finger and thumb their smock-hem, or chew thereon. But he doth seem aloth to cast of pack or ope, and standeth at apeer to murmur—then to cast.”

“E-e-e-k! E-e-e-k!”

(Telka) “Nay, Franco, ’twere not my doing, I swear. ’Twere he who sat upon a fire-spark. Do haste! I hot for sight athin the pack.”

(Franco) “What, Telka, thou awag and pig asqueak, and me the tail! Do put quiet!

“The dame and sire do step them out from gray innards o’ the hut, and pack-tipper beggeth for a mug o’ porridge, and showeth o’ the strand-bound pack. Wee lads and lass aquiver, tip-topple at a peep, and dame doth fetch the brew, but shaketh nay at offering o’ gift, and spake it so: ‘A porridge pot doth hold a mug, and one amore for he who bideth ’thout a brew. Nay, drink ye, and thank the morrow’s sun. ’Tis stony path thee trod, and dust choketh. Do rest, and bide thee at our sill till weariness awarn away.’

“Think ye, Marion, that peddle-man did leave and cast not pence? What think ye, Telka?”

(Telka) “I did hear thee tell o’ his fill, but tell thee o’ fill o’ pack.”

(Franco) “A time, Telka. Nay, he did drink and left as price an ancient jug o’ clay, and thick and o’ a weight, to thank and wag-weave hence.”

(Telka) “Did he then to pack anew and off ’thout a peep?”

(Franco) “Yea, and dark did yawn and swallow him. But morrow bringeth tale that peddle-packer had paid to each o’ huts a beg, and what think ye? Left a jug where’er, he supped!”

(Telka) “’Twere a clayster, and the morrow findeth him afollow for price, egh?”

(Franco) “Nay, Telka, not so. And jugs ashaken soundeth like to a wine; but atip did show nay drop. Marion, do tweak the Telka—she be aslumber.”

(Marion) “Wake thee, Telka, the jugs be now to crack.”

(Telka) “Nay, ’tis a puddle o’ a tale—a packster and a strand-bound pack, aweary.”

(Franco) “But list thee! For ’twere eve that found the dames awag. For tho’ they set the jugs aright, there be but dust where they did stand. Yea, all, Telka maid, save that the peddle-man did give to dame at first hand. The gabble put it so, that ’twere the porridge begged that dames did fetch but for a hope o’ price, where jugs ashrunk.”

(Telka) “But ’twere such a scurvey, Franco! I wage the jug aleft doth leak. What think ye I be caring ’bout jug or peddle-packer?”

(Marion) “Snip short thy word, Telka. Leave Franco for to tell. I be aprick for scratch to ease the itch o’ wonder. On, lad, and tie the ends o’ weave-strand.”

(Franco) “’Tis told the dame did treasure o’ the jug, and sire did shew abroad the wonder, and all did list unto the swish o’ ’nothing wine,’ and thirsted for asup, and each did tip its crook’d neck and shake, but ne’er a drop did slip it through. And wonder, Marion, the sides did sweat like to a damp within! So ’twere. The townsmen shook awag their heads and feared the witch-work or the wise man’s cunger, and they did bid the sire to dig a pit and put therein the jug.”

(Telka) “’Twere waste they wrought, I vow, for should ye crack away its neck ’twould then be fit for holding o’ the swill. There be a pair ahind the stack.”

(Franco) “Nay, Telka, not as this, for they did dig a pit and plant jug therein, and morrow showed from out the fresh-turned earth a bush had sprung, and on its every branch a bud o’ many colored hue alike to rainbow’s robe. And lo, the dames and sires did cluster ’bout, and each did pluck a twig aladen with the bud, but as ’twere snapped, what think ye? There be in the hand a naught—save when the dame who asked not price did pluck. And ’tis told that to this day the townsmen fetch unto the bush and force apluck do they make question o’ their brotherman. And so ’tis with he who fashions o’ the rainbow’s robe a world to call his own, and fetcheth to the grown bush his brother for to shew, and he seeth not, ’tis so he judge.”

(Telka) “O, thou art a story-spinner o’ a truth, and peddle-packer too, egh? And thou dost deem that thou hast planted o’ thy pot to force thy bush by which ye judge. Paugh! Thou art a fool, Franco, and thy pots o’ color be not aworth thy pains. So thou dost think then I be plucking o’ naught aside thy bush. Well, I do tell thee this. Thy pots ne’er as the jug shall spring. Nay, for morn found me adig, and I did cast them here to the fire, afearing they should haunt.”

(Franco) “’Tis nuff, Telka, I leave them to the flame. But thou shouldst know the bush abud doth show in every smouldering blaze.”

(Telka) “See, Franco, I be yet neck ahead, for I do spat upon the flame and lo, thy bush be naught!”

(Franco) “Aye, ’tis so, but there be ahid a place thou ne’er hast seen. Therein I put what be mine own—the love for them. Thou art a butterfly, Telka, abeating o’ thy wing upon a thistle-leaf. Do hover ’bout the blooms thou knowest best and leave dream-bush and thistle-leaf.”

It is a remarkable story. Many lines are gems of wit or wisdom or beauty, and it contains some exquisite poetry. There are many characters in it, all of them lovable but Telka, and she becomes so ere the end.

A curious and interesting fact in this connection is that after beginning this story Patience used its peculiar form of speech in her conversation and in her poems. Previously, as I have pointed out, there was a natural and consistent difference between her speech and her writings, and it would seem that in this change she would show that she is not subject to any rules, nor limited to the dialect of any period or any locality. Scattered through this present volume are poems, prose pieces and bits of her conversation, in which the curious and frequent use of the prefix a-, the abbreviation of the word “of” and the strange twists of phrase of the Telka story are noticeable. All of these were received after this story was begun.

---

But there is another form of prose composition that Patience has given to us. While she is writing a story she does not confine herself to that work, but precedes or follows it with a bit of gossip, a personal message, a poem or something else. Sometimes she stops in the midst of her story to deliver something entirely foreign to it that comes into her mind. During one week, while “Telka” was being received, she presented three parables, all in the peculiar language of that story. I reproduce them here and leave it to the reader to ponder o’er their meaning.

“Long, yea, long agone, aside a wall atilt who joined unto a brother-wall and made atween a gap apoint abacked, there did upon the every day, across-leged, sit a bartmaker, amid his sacks aheaped. And ne’er a buy did tribesmen make. Nay, but ’twere the babes who sought the bartman, and lo, he shutteth both his eyes and babes do pilfer from the sacks and feed thereon, till sacks asink. And still at crosslegs doth he sit.

“Yea, and days do follow days till Winter setteleth ’pon his locks its snow. Aye, and lo, at rise o’ sun ’pon such an day as had followed day since first he sat, they did see that he had ashrunked and they did wag that ’twere the wasting o’ his days at sitting at crossleg.

“And yet the babes did fetch for feast and wert fed. Till last a day did dawn and gap ashowed it empty and no man woed; but babes did sorry ’bout the spot ’till tribesmen marveled and fetched alongside and coaxed with sweets their word. But no man found answer in their prate. And they did ope remaining sacks and lo, there be anaught save dry fruit, and babes did reach forth for it and wert fed, and more, it did nurture them, and they went forth alater to the fields o’ earth astrengthened and fed ’pon—what, Brother? List ye. ’Pon truth.”

---

“There be aside the market’s place a merchant and a brother merchant. Aye, and one did put price ahigh, and gold aclinketh and copper groweth mold atween where he did store. And his brother giveth measure full and more, for the pence o’ him who offereth but pence, at measure that runneth o’er to full o’ gold’s price.

“And lo, they do each to buy o’ herds, and he who hath full price buyeth but the shrunk o’ herd, and he who hath little, buyeth the full o’ herd. And time maketh full the sacks o’ him who hoardeth gold, and layeth at aflat the sacks o’ him who maketh poor price. And lo, he who hath plenty hoardeth more, and he who had little buyed o’ seed and sowed and reaped therefrom. And famine crept it nearer and fringed ’pon the land and smote the land o’ him who asacketh o’ gold and crept it ’pon the land o’ him o’ pence.

“And herds did low o’ hunger and he who hath but gold hath naught to feed thereon. For sacks achoked ’pon gold. And he who had but pence did sack but grain and grass and fed the herd. And lo, they fattened and did fill the emptied sacks with gold, while he who hath naught but gold did sick, and famine wasted o’ his herd and famine’s sun did rise to shine ’pon him astricken ’pon gold asacked.”

---

“There wert a man and his brother and they wrought them unalike. Yea, and one did fashion from wood, and ply till wonderwork astood, a temple o’ wood. And his brother fashioneth o’ reeds and worketh wonder baskets. And he who wrought o’ wood scoffeth. And the tribesmen make buy o’ baskets and wag that ’tis a-sorry wrought the temple, and spake them that the Lord would smite, and lay it low. For he who wrought did think him o’ naught save the high and wide o’ it, and looked not at its strength or yet its stand ’pon earth. And they did turn the baskets ’bout and put to strain, and lo, they did hold. And it were the tribesmen, who shook their heads and murmured, ‘Yea, yea, they be a goodly.’

“So ’tis; he who doth fashion from wood o’ size doth prosper not, and he who doth fashion o’ reed and small, doth thrive verily.”

These are all somewhat cryptic, although their interpretation is not difficult, but that which follows on the magic of a laugh needs no explanation. “I do fashion out a tale for babes,” said Patience, when she presented this parable of the fairy’s wand, and in it she gives expression to another one of her characteristics, one that is intensely human, the love of laughter, which she seems to like to hear and often to provoke.

“Lo, at a time thou knowest not, aye, I, thy handmaid, knowest not, there wert born unto the earth a babe. And lo, the dame o’ this babe wert but a field’s woman. And lo, days and days did pass until the fullness of the babe’s days, and it stood in beauty past word o’me.

“Yea, and there wert a noble, and he did pass, and lo, his brow was darked, and smile had forsook his lips. And he came unto the cot and there stood the babe, who wert now a maid o’ lovely. And he spaked unto her and said:

“‘Come thou, and unto the lands of me shall we make way. Thou art not o’ the fields, but for the nobles.’

“And she spake not unto his word. And lo, the mother of the babe came forth and this man told unto her of this thing, that her babe wert not of the field but for the nobled. And, at the bidding of the noble, she spake, yea, the maid should go unto his lands.

“And time and time after the going, lo, no word came unto the mother. And within the lands of the noble the maid lived, and lo, the days wert sorry, and the paths held but shadows, and nay smiles shed gold unto the hours. And she smiled that this noble did offer unto her much of royal stores. Yea, gems, and gold, and all a maid might wish, and she looked in pity unto the noble and spake:

“‘What hast thou? Lo, thou hast brought forth of thy store and given unto me, and what doth it buy? Thy lips are ever sorry and thy hours dark. Then take thou these gifts and keep within such an day as thine, for, hark ye, my dame, the field’s woman, hath given unto me that which setteth at a naught thy gifts; for hark ye: mid thy dark o’ sorry I shall spill a laugh, and it be a fairies’ wand, and turneth dust to gold.’

“And she fled unto the sun’s paths of the fields.

“Verily do I to say unto thee, this, the power of the fairies’ wand, is thine, thy gift of thy field-mother, Earth. Then cast out that which earth-lands do offer unto thee and flee with thy gift.”

It is somewhat difficult to select an ending for this chapter on the prose of Patience: the material for it is so abundant and so varied, but this “Parable of the Cloak” may perhaps form a fitting finish:

“There wert a man, and lo, he did to seek and quest o’ sage, that which he did mouth o’ermuch. And lo, he did to weave o’ such an robe, and did to clothe himself therein. And lo, ’twer sun ashut away, and cool and heat and bright and shade.

“And lo, still did he to draw ’bout him the cloak, and ’twer o’ the mouthings o’ the sage. And lo, at a day ’twer sent abroad that Truth should stalk ’pon Earth, and man, were he to look him close, shouldst see.

“And lo, the man did draw ’bout him the cloak, and did to wag him ‘Nay’ and ‘Nay, ’twer truth the sages did to mouth and I did weave athin the cloak o’ me.’

“And then ’twer that Truth did seek o’ Earth, and she wert clad o’ naught, and seeked the man, and begged that he would cast the cloak and clothe o’ her therein. And lo, he did to draw him close the cloak, and hid his face therein, and wag him ’Nay,’ he did to know her not.

“And lo, she did to fetch her unto him athrice, and then did he to wag him still a ‘Nay! Nay! Nay!’ And lo, she toucheth o’ the cloth o’ sage’s mouths and it doth fall atattered and leave him clothed o’ naught, and at a wishing. And he did seek o’ Truth, aye, ever, and when he did to find, lo, she wagged him nay, and nay, and nay.”