PART THIRD
Midwinter: Eight Months Later
We talked of "Children of the Open Air,"
Who once on hill and valley lived aloof,
Loving the sun, the wind, the sweet reproof
Of storms, and all that makes the fair earth fair.
Till, on a day, across the mystic bar
Of moonrise, came the "Children of the Roof,"
Who find no balm 'neath evening's rosiest woof,
No dews of peace beneath the Morning Star.
We looked o'er London, where men wither and choke,
Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,
And lore of woods and wild-wind prophecies,
Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:
And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smoke
Leave never a meadow outside Paradise.
—Theodore Watts-Dunton.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ AT HOME
The snow had fallen all day in great, heavy, wet flakes until the trees, as if by the magic of Aladdin's lamp, were opulent crystal palaces, while the fence posts were white-cowled mendicants with bowed heads, begging without the gates. As night drew near the cold came with it, bitter and penetrating. A cutting north wind cleared the sky; the stars appeared, shimmering in distant glory, but barren of sympathy; the moon came climbing over the frozen hills, casting her wake upon the uninviting gray waters of the river; the leaping flames from ample cozy hearths flashed hospitable beacons far into the streets; while the crunching snow beneath hurried feet, or the rattle of the wagon of a belated traveler, caused the fireside dreamer to snuggle in his warm corner, thanking life for shelter and for food.
It was early evening. I sat alone by the glowing backlogs in the great fireplace of my office enjoying that delicious animal sensation which comes to one who, after having been all day in the cold, is now thoroughly warm, drowsy, and reasonably secure in the thought that one will not have to venture forth. As I sat and stared into the embers beneath the andirons my mind, released from the task of the day, naturally sought the channel of its dream-things.