y himself--and wander along reciting "Ulalume" to the
corn-fields, and congratulating Poe for drinking himself to death in
that atmosphere of smiling complacency. One afternoon he had strolled
for several miles along a road that was new to him, and then through a
wood on bad advice from a colored woman... losing himself entirely. A
passing storm decided to break out, and to his great impatience the
sky grew black as pitch and the rain began to splatter down through the
trees, become suddenly furtive and ghostly. Thunder rolled with menacing
crashes up the valley and scattered through the woods in intermittent
batteries. He stumbled blindly on, hunting for a way out, and finally,
through webs of twisted branches, caught sight of a rift in the trees
where the unbroken lightning showed open country. He rushed to the edge
of the woods and then hesitated whether or not to cross the fields and
try to reach the shelter of the little house marked by a light far down
the valley. It was only half past five, but he could see scarcely ten
steps before him, except when the lightning made everything vivid and
grotesque for great sweeps around.

Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a song, in a low,
husky voice, a girl's voice, and whoever was singing was very close
to him. A year before he might have laughed, or trembled; but in his
restless mood he only stood and listened while the words sank into his
consciousness:

"Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone."

The lightning split the sky, but the song went on without a quaver. The
girl was evidently in the field and the voice seemed to come vaguely
from a haystack about twenty feet in front of him.

Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and
hung and fell and blended with the rain:

"Tout suffocant
Et bleme quand
Sonne l'heure
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure...."

"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, "who
would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?"

"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are you?--Manfred,
St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?"

"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the
noise of the rain and the wind.

A delighted shriek came from the haystack.

"I know who you are--you're the blond boy tha