Then the discovery of Ripperda's memoirs—Ripperda, that fine Hollander who became a Spaniard, wearing the collar of the Golden Fleece and ruling all the wide realms of Spain, then passed into Morocco and ruled that land as pasha—Ripperda, who took new religions or families at will, but ruled always until the gout fetched him to a devout Christian end—here was the crowning find!
I staggered home that night freighted with treasure. A few days later I returned, with the intent of further March and seizure; but this time I did not enter. I only turned mournfully from the doorway, above which flaunted the dire announcement:
THIS PLACE HAS CHANGED HANDS
With a Branch of Semper-virens
Unto the end that age to age shall know
The perfect love which Ronsard gave in fee,
How your warm beauty laid cold reason low
And held in fetters all his liberty;
Unto the end that age to age shall see
How your sweet face shrined in his life was lying,
How in his heart you dwelt eternally—
I bring to you this flowered branch, undying,
Which knows no frost to sere its radiant spring!
When you are dead I shall revive you, chaste
And lovely; such the tribute that I bring,
Who in your service find all bliss embraced!
Like Laura, loved of Petrarch, you will live—
At least, while books immortal life can give!
THE LITTLE VISITORS
[1] This final title has been altered since the printing of the Table of Contents.
It was lately my good fortune—and I so term it advisedly—to entertain a budding Bolshevist in my midst.
He was an excellent young man and a fellow writer, who had been discharged as an officer of the nation's armed forces. Not knowing him intimately, I invited him, with his brother, to spend a part of the summer in a cottage which I maintained as an office.