oy.

"They called me once the Great God Pan. And thou?"

"My father is Joseph the carpenter. My mother calls me Jesus."

"_Ah_ ..." said Pan, "... _is it Thou?_"

Quietly they looked into each other's eyes; quietly clasped hands. And
with no more words the man turned westward into the depths of the glen,
drawing the sun's rays with him as he moved, so that the world seemed
the darker for his going. And as he went he blew upon his pipe a
tremulous and hesitating melody, piercing sweet and piercing sorrowful,
so that whosoever should hear it should clutch his throat with tears at
the wild pity of it, and the strange and haunting beauty. And the boy
stood still, watching, until the man was lost upon the edge of night.
Then he turned his face eastward, whence the new day comes, carrying
forever in his heart the echoes of a dying song.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Copyright, 1920, by John T. Frederick. Copyright, 1921, by Helen
Coale Crew.

HABAKKUK[8]

#By# KATHARINE FULLERTON GEROULD

From _Scribner's Magazine_

When they carried Kathleen Somers up into the hills to die where her
ancestors had had the habit of dying--they didn't gad about, those early
Somerses; they dropped in their tracks, and the long grass that they had
mowed and stacked and trodden under their living feet flourished
mightily over their graves--it was held to be only a question of time. I
say "to die," not because her case was absolutely hopeless, but because
no one saw how, with her spent vitality, she could survive her exile.
Everything had come at once, and she had gone under. She had lost her
kin, she had lost her money, she had lost her health. Even the people
who make their meat of tragedy--and there are a great many of them in
all enlightened centres of thought--shook their heads and were sorry.
They thought she couldn't live; and they also thought it much, much
better that she shouldn't. For there was nothing left in life for that
sophisticated creature but a narrow cottage in a stony field, with
Nature to look at.

Does it sound neurotic and silly? It wasn't. Conceive her if you
can--Kathleen Somers, whom probably you never knew. From childhood she
had nourished short hopes and straightened thoughts. At least: hopes
that depend on the A|sthetic passion are short; and the long perspectives
of civilized history are very narrow. Kathleen Somers had been fed with
the Old World: that is to say, her adolescent feet had exercised
themselves