garden of the sunset, the
fastidious truant is ushered (as was our friend Endymion the other
evening) upon a gentle meadow where a solitary house of white stucco
begs for a poet as occupant. This house, having been selected by
Titania and ourself as a proper abode for Endymion and his family,
we waited until sunset, frogsong, and all the other amenities of
life in Salamis were suitable for the introduction of our guest to
the scene. This dwelling, having long lain untenanted, has a back
door that stands ajar and we piloted the awe-struck lyrist inside.
Now nothing rages so merrily in the blood as the instinct of picking
out houses for other people, houses that you yourself do not have to
live in; and those Realtors whom we have dismayed by our lack of
enthusiasm would have been startled to hear the orotund accents in
which we vouched for that property, sewage, messuage, and all. Here,
we cried, is the front door (facing the sunset) where the postman
will call with checks from your publishers; and here are the
porcelain laundry tubs that will make glad the heart of the
washerwoman (when you can get one).

Endymion's guileless heart was strongly uplifted. Not a question did
he ask as to heating arrangements, save to show a mild spark in his
eye when he saw the two fireplaces. Plumbing was to him, we saw, a
matter to be taken on faith. His paternal heart was slightly
perturbed by a railing that ran round the top of the stairs. This
railing, he feared, was so built that small and impetuous children
would assuredly fall headlong through it, and we discussed means of
thwarting such catastrophe. But upstairs we found the room that
caused our guest to glimmer with innocent cheer. It had tall
casement windows looking out upon a quiet glimpse of trees. It had a
raised recess, very apt for a bust of Pallas. It had space for
bookcases. And then, on the windowsill, we found the dead and
desiccated corpse of a swallow. It must have flown in through a
broken pane on the ground floor long ago and swooped vainly about
the empty house. It lay, pathetically, close against the shut pane.
Like a forgotten and un-uttered beauty in the mind of a poet, it lay
there, stiffened and silent.

[Illustration]

CONSIDER THE COMMUTER

When they tell us the world is getting worse and worse, and the
follies and peevishness of men will soon bring us all to some
damnable perdition, we are consoled by contemplating the steadfast
virtue