lour came, green upon the black, with the
neutral earth filling the background, gradually to be covered save for
the long regular lines that stretched from East to West, from North to
South.

[Sidenote: The New Growth]

All the beauty of Spring and Summer went to the making of the tapestry:
the first robin's cheery call, the shimmer of blue wings speeding across
it, the golden glow from an oriole's breast, and the silver rain of
melody dripping from the throat of a meadow-lark as he swept through the
infinite spaces above.

Up into the threads came the thousand stored sweetnesses of the earth,
aspiring surely upward through devious, winding ways. The softness of
leaves that had gone back to dust, the wine from fallen grapes that had
dripped through the sand into the dark storehouse beneath, were only to
be taken up again, for sap or fibre or bloom.

Blown perfumes came from distant orchards, mysteriously to become a part
of the tapestry. Purple dawns and prismatic sunsets, crystalline noons
and starry midnights slowly but surely were woven in. The new leaves
shone afar, surrounding the vineyard with a faint, iridescent sheen
through which tiny wings moved ceaselessly with a far-off, sleepy sound.

Weary winds came to the vineyard, and, for the moment, lay at peace upon
the web, drinking the exquisite fragrance of leaf and blossom. Then,
rising slowly, as though still intoxicated with that more than mortal
sweetness, they bore it afar to the four corners of the earth. Some of
it sank into the valley, and the river turned in its sleep to dimple
with smiles, ripple with silvery laughter, and drop to sleep again. The
scent of it rose to the hills, like heavenly incense from earthly
altars, and the Little People in feathers and fur breathed deeply of it
and were glad.

[Sidenote: The Ripening of the Grapes]

Wild bees hummed through the web, and left it, heavy laden with the
sweet essence distilled from the dust by the subtle chemistry of sun and
rain. And the Weaver only smiled at the golden-winged army of
plunderers, for secretly they ministered unto the vineyard in ways of
love.

Then the Weaver paused to rest, for the pattern was made and there was
only the colour to be put in. The fragrance died, the blossoms fell, and
the miracle of the tapestry began. Where there had been scent, came
substance; where there had been promise, came fulfilment.

With a single mighty impulse the vines took deep hold of the treas