stormed. 

 Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain Was wholly intent on the incoming train. That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath, Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death, Paused scarcely a moment, and then sped away, And two actors more now enliven our play. 

 A graceful young woman with eyes like the morn, With hair like the tassels which hang from the corn, And a face that might serve as a model for Peace, Moved lightly along, smiled and bowed to Maurice, Then was lost in the circle of friends waiting near. A discord of shrill nasal tones smote the ear, As they greeted their comrade and bore her from sight. (The ear oft is pained while the eye feels delight In the presence of women throughout our fair land: God gave them the graces which win and command, But the devil, who always in mischief rejoices, Slipped into their teachers and ruined their voices.) 

 There had stepped from the train just behind Mabel Lee A man whose deportment bespoke him to be A child of good fortune. His mien and his air Were those of one all unaccustomed to care. His brow was not vexed with the gold seeker's worry, His manner was free from the national hurry. Repose marked his movements. Yet gaze in his eye, And you saw that this calm outer man was a lie; And you knew that deep down in the depths of his breast There dwelt the unmerciful imp of unrest. 

 He held out his hand; it was clasped with a will In both the firm palms of Maurice Somerville. "Well, Reese, my old Comrade;" "Ha, Roger, my boy," They cried in a breath, and their eyes gemmed with joy (Which but for their sex had been set in a tear), As they walked arm in arm to the trap waiting near, And drove down the shining shell roadway which wound Through forest and meadow, in search of the Sound. 

 Roger: 

 I smell the salt water—that perfume which starts The blood from hot brains back to world withered hearts; You may talk of the fragrance of flower filled fields, You may sing of the odors the Orient yields, You may tell of the health laden scent of the pine, But give me the subtle salt breath of the brine. Already I feel lost emotions of youth Steal back to my soul in their sweetness and truth; Small wonder the years leave no marks on your face, Time's scythe gathers rust in this idyllic place. You must feel like a child on the Great Mother's breast, With the Sound like a nurse watching over your rest? 

 Prev. P 3/69 next