Enterprise Of Death

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Enterprise Of Death

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 Enterprise Of Death

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.
 I tuned my song to love and hate and pain
And scorn, and wrung from passion’s heat the flame,
And found the song a wailing waste of voice.
My song but reached the earth and echoed o’er its plains.
I sought for one who sang a wordless lay,
And up from ’mong the rushes soared a lark.
Hark to his song!
From sunlight came his gladdening note.
And ah, his trill—the raindrops’ patter!

And think ye that the thief would steal

The rustle of the leaves, or yet
The chilling chatter of the brooklet’s song?
Not claiming as his own the carol of my heart,
Or listening to my plaint, he sings amid the clouds;
And through the downward cadence I but hear
The murmurings of the day.

One naturally thinks of Shelley’s “Skylark” when reading this, and

there are some passages in that celebrated poem that show a
similarity of metaphor, such as this:
Sounds of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass;
Rain-awakened flowers;
All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh
Thy music doth surpass.

And there is something of the same thought in the lines of

Edmund Burke:
Teach me, O lark! with thee to greatly rise,
T’ exalt my soul and lift it to the skies;
To make each worldly joy as mean appear,
Unworthy care when heavenly joys are near.

But Patience nowhere belittles earthly joys that are not evil in
themselves; nor does she teach that all earthly passions are
inherently wrong: for earthly love is the theme of many of her
verses.
 Her expressions of scorn are sometimes powerful in their
vehemence. This, on “War,” for example:
Ah, thinkest thou to trick?
I fain would peep beneath the visor.
A god of war, indeed! Thou liest!
A masquerading fiend,
The harlot of the universe—
War, whose lips, becrimsoned in her lover’s blood,
Smile only to his death-damped eyes!
I challenge thee to throw thy coat of mail!
Ah, God! Look thou beneath!
Behold, those arms outstretched!
That raiment over-spangled with a leaden rain!
O, Lover, trust her not!
She biddeth thee in siren song,
And clotheth in a silken rag her treachery,
To mock thee and to wreak
Her vengeance at thy hearth.
Cast up the visor’s skirt!
Thou’lt see the snakey strands.
A god of war, indeed! I brand ye as a lie!

Such outbreaks as this are rare in her poetry, but in her

conversation she occasionally gives expression to anger or scorn or
contempt, though, as stated, she seldom dignifies such emotions in
verse. Love, as I have said, is her favorite theme in numbers, the
love of God first and far foremost, and after that brother love and
mother love. To the love of man for woman, or woman for man,
there is seldom a reference in her poems, although it is the theme of
some of her dramatic works. There is an exquisite expression of
mother love in the spinning wheel lullaby already given, but for
rapturous glorification of infancy, it would be difficult to surpass this,
which does not reveal its purport until the last line:
 Ah, greet the day, which, like a golden butterfly,
Hovereth ’twixt the night and morn;
And welcome her fullness—the hours
’Mid shadow and those the rose shall grace.
Hast thou among her hours thy heart’s
Desire and dearest? Name thou then of all
His beauteous gifts thy greatest treasure.
The morning, cool and damp, dark-shadowed
By the frowning sun—is this thy chosen?
The midday, flaming as a sword,
Deep-stained by noon’s becrimsoned light—
Is this thy chosen? Or misty startide,
Woven like a spinner’s web and jeweled
By the climbing moon—is this thy chosen?
Doth forest shade, or shimmering stream,
Or wild bird song, or cooing of the nesting dove,
Bespeak thy chosen? He who sendeth light
Sendeth all to thee, pledges of a bonded love.
And ye who know Him not, look ye!
From all His gifts He pilfered that which made it His
To add His fullest offering of love.
From out the morning, at the earliest tide,
He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried
Lest the dark should sorrow. And when the day was born,
The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud
And tinted soft by lingering night;
And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze;
The lily’s satin cheek, and dove cooes,
And wild bird song, and Death himself
Is called to offer of himself;
And soft as willow buds may be,
He claimeth but the down to fashion this, thy gift,
The essence of His love, thine own first-born.

In brief, the babe concentrates within itself all the beauties and all
the wonders of nature. Its eyes, “two lingering stars who tarried lest
the dark should sorrow,” and in its face “the glow of sun flush veiled
by gossamer cloud,” “rose petals” and the “lily’s satin cheek”; its
voice the dove’s coo. “From all His gifts He pilfered that which made
it His”—the divine essence—“to add His fullest offering of love.” This
is the idealism of true poetry, and what mother looking at her own
firstborn will say that it is overdrawn?
So much for mother-love. Of her lines on brotherhood I have
already given example. In only a few verses, as I have said, does
Patience speak of love between man and woman. The poem which
follows is perhaps the most eloquent of these:
’Tis mine, this gift, ah, mine alone,
To paint the leaden sky to lilac-rose,
Or coax the sullen sun to flash,
Or carve from granite gray a flaming knight,
Or weave the twilight hours with garlands gay,
Or wake the morning with my soul’s glad song,
Or at my bitterest drink a sweetness cast,
Or gather from my loneliness the flower—
A dream amid a mist of tears.
Ah, treasure mine, this do I pledge to thee,
That none may peer within thy land; and only
When the moon shines white shall I disclose thee;
Lest, straying, thou should’st fade; and in the blackness
Of the midnight shall I fondle thee,
Afraid to show thee to the day.
When I shall give to Him, the giver,
All my treasure’s stores, and darkness creeps upon me,
Then will I for this return a thank,
And show thee to the world.
Blind are they to thee, but ah, the darkness
Is illumined; and lo! thy name is burned
Like flaming torch to light me on my way.
Then from thy wrapping of love I pluck
My dearest gift, the memory of my dearest love.
Ah, memory, thou painter,
Who from cloud canst fashion her dear form,
Or from a stone canst turn her smile,
Or fill my loneliness with her dear voice,
Or weave a loving garland for her hair—
Thou art my gift of God, to be my comrade here.

Next to such love as this comes friendship, and she has put an
estimate of the value of a friend in these words:
 Of Earth there be this store of joys and woes.
Yea, and they do make the days o’ me.
I sit me here adream that did I hold
From out the whole, but one, my dearest gift,
What then would it to be? Doth days and nights
Of bright and dark make this my store?
Nay. Do happy hours and woes-tide, then,
Beset this day of me and make the thing I’d keep?
Nay. Doth metal store and jewelled string
Then be aworth to me? Nay. I set me here,
And dreaming, fall to reasoning for this,
That I would keep, if but one gift wert mine
Must hold the store o’ all. Yea, must hold
The dark for light, yea, and hold the light for dark,
Aye, and hold the sweet for sours, aye, and hold
The love for Hate. Yea, then, where may I to turn?

And lo, as I adreaming sat

A voice spaked out to me: What ho! What ho!
And lo, the voice of one, a friend!

This, then, shall be my treasure,

And the Earth part I shall hold
From out all gifts of Him.

Love of God, and God’s love for us, and the certainty of life after
death as a consequence of that love, are the themes of Patience’s
finest poetry, consideration of which is reserved for succeeding
chapters. Yet a taste of this devotional poetry will not be amiss at
this point in the presentation of her works, as an indication of the
character of that which is to come.
Lo, ’pon a day there bloomed a bud,
And swayed it at adance ’pon sweeted airs.
And gardens oped their greenéd breast
To shew to Earth o’ such an one.
And soft the morn did woo its bloom;
And nights wept ’pon its cheek,
And mosses crept them ’bout the stem,
That sun not scoarch where it had sprung.
And lo, the garden sprite, a maid,
Who came aseek at every day,
And kissed the bud, and cast o’ drops
To cool the warm sun’s rays.
And bud did hang it swaying there,
And love lept from the maiden’s breast.

And days wore on; and nights did wrap

The bud to wait the morn;
And maid aseeked the spot.
When, lo, there came a Stranger
To the garden’s wall,
Who knocked Him there
And bid the maiden come.

And up unto her heart she pressed her hand,

And reached it forth to stay the bud’s soft sway,
And lo, the sun hung dark,
And Stranger knocked Him there.
And ’twere the maid did step most regal to the place.
And harked, and lo, His voice aspoke.
And she looked upon His face,
And lo, ’twere sorry sore, and sad!
And soft there came His word
Of pleading unto her:
“O’ thy garden’s store do offer unto me.”
And lo, the maid did turn and seek her out the bud,
And pluck it that she bear it unto Him.
And at the garden’s ope He stood and waited her.
And forth her hand she held, therein the bud,
And lo, He took therefrom the bloom
And left the garden bare,
And maid did stand astripped
Of heart’s sun ’mid her garden’s bloom.
When lo, athin the wound there sunk
A warmpth that filled it up with love
 A warmpth that filled it up with love.
Yea, ’twere the smile o’ Him, the price.

But she has given another form of poem which should be

presented before this brief review of her more material verse is
concluded, and it is a form one would hardly expect from such a
source. I refer to the “poem of occasion.” A few days before
Christmas, Mrs. Curran remarked as she sat at the board: “I wonder
if Patience wouldn’t give us a Christmas poem.” And without a
moment’s hesitation she did. Here it is:
I hied me to the glen and dell,
And o’er the heights, afar and near,
To find the Yule sprite’s haunt.
I dreamt me it did bide
Where mistletoe doth bead;
And found an oak whose boughs
Hung clustered with its borrowed loveliness.
Ah, could such a one as she
Abide her in this chill?
For bleakness wraps the oak about
And crackles o’er her dancing branch.
Nay, her very warmth
Would surely thaw away the icy shroud,
And mistletoe would die
Adreaming it was spring.
I hied me to the holly tree
And made me sure to find her there.
But nay,
The thorny spines would prick her tenderness.
Ah, where then doth she bide?

I asked the frost who stood

Upon the fringéd grasses ’neath the oak.
“I know her not, but I
Am ever bidden to her feast.
Ask thou the sparrow of the field.
He searcheth everywhere; perchance
He knoweth where she bides.”

“Nay, I know her not,

But at her birthday’s tide
I find full many a crumb
Cast wide upon the snow.”

I found a chubby babe,

Who toddled o’er the ice, and whispered,
Did she know the Yule sprite’s haunt?
And she but turneth solemn eyes to me
And wags her golden head.

I flitted me from house to shack,

And ever missed the rogue;
But surely she had left her sign
To bid me on to search.
 o b d e o to sea c
And I did weary of my task
And put my hopes to rest,
And slept me on the eve afore her birth,
Full sure to search anew at morn.

And then the morning broke;

And e’er mine eyes did ope,
I fancied me a scarlet sprite,
With wings of green and scepter of a mistletoe,
Did bid me wake, and whispered me
To look me to my heart.
Soft-nestled, warm, I found her resting there.
Guard me lest I tell;
But, heart o’erfull of loving,
Thee’lt surely spill good cheer!

The following week, without request, she gave this New Year’s
poem, remarkable for the novelty of its treatment of a much worn
theme:
The year hath sickened;
And dawning day doth show his withering;
And Death hath crept him closer on each hour.
The crying hemlock shaketh in its grief.
The smiling spring hath hollowed it to age,
And golden grain-stalks fallen
O’er the naked breast of earth.
The year’s own golden locks
Have fallen, too, or whitened,
Where they still do hold.

And do I sorrow me?

Nay, I do speed him on,
For precious pack he beareth
To the land of passing dreams.

I’ve bundled pain and wishing

’Round with deeds undone,
And packed the loving o’ my heart
With softness of thine own;
And plied his pack anew
With loss and gain, to add
The cup of bitter tears I shed
O’er nothings as I passed.

Old year and older years—

My friends, my comrades on the road below—
I fain would greet ye now,
And bid ye Godspeed on your ways.

I watch ye pass, and read

The aged visages of each.
I love ye well, and count ye o’er
In fearing lest I lose e’en one of you.
And here the brother of you, every one,
Lies smitten!

But as dear I’ll love him

When the winter’s moon doth sink;
And like the watery eye of age
Doth close at ending of his day.
And I shall flit me through his dreams
And cheer him with my loving;
And last within the pack shall put
 A Hope and speed him thence.

And bow me to the New.

A friend mayhap, but still untried.
And true, ye say?
But ne’er hath proven so!

Old year, I love thee well,

And bid thee farewell with a sigh.

One who reads these poems with thoughtfulness must be

impressed by a number of attributes which make them notable, and,
in some respects, wholly unique. First of all is the absence of
conventionality, coupled with skill in construction, in phrasing, in the
compounding of words, in the application to old words of new or
unusual but always logical meanings, in the maintenance of rhythm
without monotony. Next is the absolute purity, with the sometimes
archaic quality, of the English. It is the language of Shakespeare, of
Marlowe, of Fletcher, of Jonson and Drayton, except that it presents
Saxon words or Saxon prefixes which had already passed out of
literary use in their time, while on the other hand it avoids nearly all
the words derived directly from other languages that were habitually
used by those great writers. There is rarely a word that is not of
Anglo-Saxon or Norman birth. Nor are there any long words. All of
these compositions are in words of one, two and three syllables,
very seldom one of four—no “multitudinous seas incarnadine.”
Among the hundreds of words of Patience Worth’s in this chapter
there are only two of four syllables and less than fifty of three
syllables. Fully 95 per cent of her works are in words of one and two
syllables. In what other writing, ancient or modern, the Bible
excepted, can this simplicity be found?
But the most impressive attribute of these poems is the weirdness
of them, an intangible quality that defies definition or location, but
which envelops and permeates all of them. One may look in vain
through the works of the poets for anything with which to compare
them. They are alike in the essential features of all poetry, and yet
they are unalike. There is something in them that is not in other
poetry. In the profusion of their metaphor there is an etherealness
that more closely resembles Shelley, perhaps, than any other poet;
but the beauty of Shelley’s poems is almost wholly in their diction:
there is in him no profundity of thought. In these poems there is
both beauty and depth—and something else.
 THE PROSE

“Word meeteth word, and at touch o’ me, doth

spell to thee.”—Patience Worth.

Strictly speaking, there is no prose in the compositions of Patience

Worth. That which I have here classified as prose, lacks none of the
essential elements of poetry, except a continuity of rhythm. The
rhythm is there, the iambic measure which she favors being fairly
constant, but it is broken by sentences and groups of sentences that
are not metrical, and while it would not be difficult to arrange most
of this matter in verse form, I am inclined to think that to the
majority it will read smoother and with greater ease as prose.
Nevertheless, as will be seen, it is poetry. The diction is wholly of
that order, and it is filled with strikingly vivid and agreeable imagery.
There is, however, this distinction: most of the matter here classed
as prose is dramatic in form and treatment, and each composition
tells a story—a story with a definite and well-constructed plot,
dealing with real and strongly individualized people, and mingling
humor and pathos with much effectiveness. They bring at once a
smile to the face and a tear to the eye. They differ, too, from the
poetry, in that they have little or no apparent spiritual significance.
They are stories, beautiful stories, unlike anything to be found in the
literature of any country or any time, but, except in the shadowy
figure of “The Stranger,” they do not rise above the things of earth.
That is not to say, however, that they are not spiritual in the
intellectual or emotional sense of the word, as distinguished from
the soul relation.
 At the end of an evening a year and a half after Patience began
her work, she said: “Thy hearth is bright. I fain would knit beside its
glow and spinn a wordy tale betimes.”
At the next sitting she began the “wordy tale.” Up to that time she
had offered nothing in prose form but short didactic pieces, such as
will appear in subsequent chapters of this book, and the circle was
lost in astonishment at the unfolding of this story, so different in
form and spirit from anything she had previously given.
Her stories are, as already stated, dramatic in form. Indeed they
are condensed dramas. After a brief descriptive introduction or
prologue, all the rest is dialogue, and the scenes are shifted without
explanatory connection, as in a play. In the story of “The Fool and
the Lady” which follows, the fool bids adieu to the porter of the inn,
and in the next line begins a conversation with Lisa, whom he
meets, as the context shows, at some point on the road to the
tourney. It is the change from the first to the second act or scene,
but no stage directions came from the board, no marks of division or
change of scene, nor names of persons speaking, except as
indicated in the context. In reproducing these stories, no attempt
has been made to put them completely in the dramatic form for
which they were evidently designed, the desire being to present
them as nearly as possible as they were received; but to make them
clearer to the reader the characters are identified, and shift of scene
or time has been indicated.
 THE FOOL AND THE LADY
And there it lay, asleep. A mantle, gray as monk’s cloth, its
covering. Dim-glowing tapers shine like glowflies down the narrow
winding streets. The sounds of early morning creep through the
thickened veil of heavy mist, like echoes of the day afore. The wind
is toying with the threading smoke, and still it clingeth to the
chimney pot.
There stands, beyond the darkest shadow, the Inn of Falcon
Feather, her sides becracked with sounding of the laughter of the
king and gentlefolk, who barter song and story for the price of ale.
Her windows sleep like heavy-lidded eyes, and her breath doth reek
with wine, last drunk by a merry party there.
The lamp, now blacked and dead, could boast to ye of part to
many an undoing of the unwary. The roof, o’er-hanging and
bepeaked, doth ’mind ye of a sleeper in his cap.
The mist now rises like a curtain, and over yonder steeple peeps
the sun, his face washed fresh in the basin of the night. His beams
now light the dark beneath the palsied stair, and rag and straw doth
heave to belch forth its baggage for the night.

(Fool) “Eh, gad! ’Tis morn, Beppo. Come, up, ye vermin; laugh
and prove thou art the fool’s. An ape and jackass are wearers of the
cap and bells. Thou wert fashioned with a tail to wear behind, and I
to spin a tale to leave but not to wear. For the sayings of the fool are
purchased by the wise. My crooked back and pegs are purses—the
price to buy my gown; but better far, Beppo, to hunch and yet to
peer into the clouds, than be as strong as knights are wont to be,
and belly, like a snake, amongst the day’s bright hours.
“Here, eat thy crust. ’Tis funny-bread, the earnings of a fool.
“I looked at Lisa as she rode her mount at yesternoon, and saw
her skirt the road with anxious eyes. Dost know for whom she
sought, Beppo? Not me, who, breathless, watched behind a
flowering bush to hide my ugliness. Now laugh, Beppo, and prove
thou art the fool’s!
“But ’neath these stripes of color I did feel new strength, and saw
me strided on a black beside her there. And, Beppo, knave, thou
didst but rattle at thy chain, and lo, the shrinking of my dream!
“But we do limp quite merrily, and could we sing our song in truer
measure—thou the mimic, and I the fool? Thine eyes hold more for
me than all the world, since hers do see me not.
“We two together shall flatten ’neath the tree in yonder field and
ride the clouds, Beppo, I promise ye, at after hour of noon.
“See! Tonio has slid the shutter’s bolt! I’ll spin a song and bart him
for a sup.”

(Tonio) “So, baggage, thou hast slept aneath the smell thou lovest
best!”
(Fool) “Oh, morrow, Tonio. The smell is weak as yester’s unsealed
wine. My tank doth tickle with the dust of rust, and yet methinks
thou would’st see my slattern stays to rattle like dry bones, to please
thee. See, Beppo cryeth! Fetch me then a cup that I may catch the
drops—or, here, I’ll milk the dragon o’er thy door!”
(Tonio) “Thou scrapple! Come within. ’Tis he who loveth not the
fool who doth hate his God.”
(Fool) “I’m loth to leave my chosen company. Come, Beppo, his
words are hard, but we do know his heart.
“A health to thee, Antonio. Put in thy wine one taste of thy heart’s
brew and I need not wish ye well.
“To her, Beppo. Come, dip and take a lick.
“Tonio, hast heard that at a time not set as yet the tournament
will be? Who think ye rides the King’s lance and weareth Lisa’s
colors? Blue, Tonio, and gold, the heavens’ garb—stop, Beppo, thou
meddling pest! Antonio, I swear those bits of cloth are but patches I
have pilfered from the ragheap adown the alleyway. I knew not they
were blue. And this is but a tassel dropt from off a lance at yester’s
ride. I knew not of its tinselled glint, I swear!
 “So, thou dost laugh? Ah, Beppo, see, he laughs! And we too, eh?
But do we laugh the same? Come, jump! Thy pulpit is my hump.
Aday, Antonio!”
(Antonio) “Aday, thou fool, and would I had the wisdom of thy
ape.”

(On the Road to the Tournament.)

(Lisa) “Aday, fool!”
(Fool) “Ah, lady fair, hath lost the silver of thy laugh, and dost thee
wish me then to fetch it thee?”
(Lisa) “Yea, jester. Thou speaketh wisely; for may I ripple laughter
from a sorry heart? Now tease me, then.”
(Fool) “A crooked laugh would be thy gift should I tease it with a
crooked tale; and, lady, didst thee e’er behold a crooked laugh—one
which holds within its crook a tear?”
(Lisa) “Oh, thou art in truth a fool. I’d bend the crook and strike
the tear away.”
(Fool) “Aye, lady, so thou wouldst. But thou hast ne’er yet found
thy lot to bear a crook held staunch within His hand! Spring rain
would be thy tears—a balm to buy fresh beauties. And the fool? Ah,
his do dry in dust, e’en before they fall!”
(Lisa) “Pish, jester, thy tears would paint thy face to crooked lines,
and thee wouldst laugh to see the muck. My heart doth truly sorry.
Hast heard the King hath promised me as wages for the joust? And
thee dost know who rideth ’gainst my chosen?”
(Fool) “Aye, lady, the crones do wag, and I do promise ye they
wear their necks becricked to see his palfrey pass. They do tell me
that his sumpter-cloth doth trail like a ladies’ robe.”
(Lisa) “Yea, fool, and pledge me thy heart to tell it not, I did
broider at its hem a thrush with mine own tress—a song to cheer his
way, a wing to speed him on.”
(Fool) “Hear, Beppo, how she prates! Would I were a posey
wreath and Beppo here a fashioner of song. We then would lend us
to thy hand to offer as a token. But thou dost know a fool and ape
are ever but a fool and ape. I’m off to chase thy truant laugh. Who
cometh there? The dust doth rise like storm-cloud along the road
ahead, and ’tis shot with glinting. Oh, I see the mantling flush of
morning put to shame by the flushing of thy cheek! See, he doth
ride with helmet ope. Its golden bars do clatter at the jolt, and—but
stop, Beppo, she heareth not! We, poor beggars, thee and me—an
ape with a tail and a fool with a heart!
“See, Beppo, I did tear a rose to tatters but to fling its petals
’neath her feet. They tell me that his lance doth bear a ribband blue
and a curling lock of gold—and yet he treads the earth! Let’s then
away!
The world may sorrow
But the fool must laugh.
’Tis blessed grain
That hath no chaff.
To love an ape
Is but to ape at love.
I sought a hand,
And found—a glove!

“Beppo, laugh, and prove thyself the fool’s! I fain would feel the
yoke, lest I step too high.
“Come, we’ll seek the shelt’ring tree. I’ve in my kit a bit of curd.
Thy conscience need not prick. I swear that Tonio, the rogue, did
see me stow it there!
“Ah, me, ’tis such a home for fools, the earth. And they that are
not fools are apes.
“I see the crowd bestringing ’long the road, and yonder clarion
doth bid the riders come. Well, Beppo, do we ride? Come, chere, we
may tramp our crooked path and ride astraddle of a cloud.
“She doth love him, then; and even now the horn doth sound
anew—and she the prize!
“I call the God above to see the joke that fate hath played; for I
do swear, Beppo, that when he rides he carries on his lance-point
this heart.
“I fret me here, but dare I see the play? Yea, ’tis a poor fool that
loveth not his jest.
 “I go, Beppo; I know not why, save I do love her so.
“I’ll bear my hunch like a badge of His colors and I shall laugh,
Beppo, shall laugh at losing. He loves me well, else why didst send
me thee?
“The way seems over long.
“They parry at the ring! I see her veil to float like cloud upon the
breeze.
“She sees me not. I wonder that she heareth not the thumping of
my heart. My eyes do mist. Beppo, look thou! Ah, God, to see within
her eyes the look of thine!
“They rank! And hell would cool my brow, I swear. Beppo, as thou
lovest me, press sorely on my hump! Her face, Beppo, it swayeth
everywhere, as a garden thick with bloom—a lily, white and
glistening with a rain of tears. My heart hath torn asunder, that I
know.
“The red knight now doth cast! O Heaven turn his lance!
“’Tis put!
“And now the blue and gold! Wait, brother ape! Hold, in the name
of God! Straight! ’Tis tie! Can I but stand?
“I—ah, lady, he doth ride full well. May I but steady thee? My legs
are wobbled but—my hand, dear lady, lest ye sink.
(”Beppo, ’tis true she seeth me!)
“Thy hand is cold. I wager you he wins. He puts a right too high.
Thy thrush is singing; hear ye not his song? His wing doth flutter
even now. Ah, he is fitting thee——
“I do but laugh to feel the tickle of a feathering jest. An age
before he puts! A miss! A tie! Ah, lady, should’st thee win I’ll laugh
anew and even then will laugh at what thee knowest not.
“The red knight! God weight his charger’s hoof! (My God, Beppo,
she did kiss my hand!)
“He’s off! Beppo, cling!”
(Lisa) “The fool! Look ye, the fool and ape! Oh heaven stop their
flight! He’s well upon them! Blind me, lest I die! He’s charged anew,
but missed! What, did his mantle fall? That shape that lieth! Come!”
(Lisa, to her knight) “So, thou, beloved, didst win me right! Where
go they with the litter?”
 (Knight) “The fool, my lady, and a chattering ape, did tempt to
jest a charger in the field. We found them so. He lives but barely.”
(Enter Fool upon litter.)
(Fool) “Aday, my lady fair! And hast thee lost the silver of thy
laugh and bid me fetch it thee? The world doth hold but fools and
lovers, folly sick.”
(Lisa) “His eye grows misty. Fool, I know thee as a knave and love
thee as a man.”
(Fool) “’Tis but a patch, Beppo, a patch and tassel from a lance ...
but we did ride, eh? Laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s! I
laugh anew, lest my friends should know me not. Beppo, I dream of
new roads, but thou art there! And I do faint, but she ... did kiss my
hand.... Aday ... L—a—d—y.”

Very soon after the completion of this story Patience began

another one, a Christmas story, a weird, mystical tale of medieval
England, having for its central theme a “Stranger” who is visible only
to Lady Marye of the Castle. The stranger is not described, nor does
he speak a word, but he is presumedly the Christ. There are
descriptions of the preparations for the Christmas feast at this lordly
stronghold of baronial days, and the coarse wit of the castle servants
and the drunken profanity of their master, “John the Peaceful,” form
a vivid contrast to the ethereal Lady Marye and the simple love of
the herder’s family at the foot of the hill. There are striking
characters and many beautiful lines in this story, but it is not as
closely woven nor as coherent in plot as the story of the fool and the
lady.
 THE STRANGER
’Twas at white season o’ the year, the shrouding o’ spring and
summerstide.
Steep, rugged, was the path, and running higher on ahead to
turret-topped and gated castle o’ the lordly state o’ John the
Peaceful, where Lady Marye whiled away the dragging day at
fingering the regal.[2]
2. Regal. A small portable pipe organ used in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries. It was played with one hand while the bellows was worked with the
other.

From sheltered niche she looked adown the hillside stretching

’neath. The valley was bestir. A shepherd chided with gentle word his
flock, and gentle folk did speak o’ coming Christ-time. Timon, the
herder’s hut, already hung with bitter sweets, and holly and fir
boughs set to spice the air.

“Timon, man, look ye to the wee lambs well, for winter promiseth
a searching night.”
Thus spake Leta, who stands, her babe astride her hip.
“And come ye then within. I have a brew that of a truth shall tickle
at thy funny bone. Bring then a bundle o’ brush weed that we may
ply the fire. I vow me thy boots are snow carts, verily!
“Hast seen the castle folk? And fetched ye them the kids? They
breathe it here that the boar they roast would shame a heiffer. All of
the sparing hours today our Leta did sniff her up the hill; nay, since
the dawning she hath spread her smock and smirked.
“Leta, thou art such a joy! Thou canst wish the winter-painted
bough to bloom, and like the plum flowers falls the snow. Fetch thee
a bowl and put the bench to table-side. Thy sire wouldst sup. Go
now and watch aside the crib. Perchance thee’lt catch a glimpse o’
heaven spilled from Tina’s dream.
 “Timon, man, tell me now the doings o’ the day. I do ettle[3] for a
spicey tale.”
3. Ettle. In this case, to have a strong desire.

(Timon) “Well, be it so then, minx. I did fell the kids at sun-wake,

and thee’lt find the skins aneath the cape I cast in yonder corner
there. And I did catch a peep aslaunch[4] at mad Lady Marye, who
did play the pipes most mournfully. They tell me she doth look a
straining to this cot of ours. And what think ye, Leta? She doth only
smile when she doth see our wee one’s curls to glint. And ever she
doth speak of him who none hath seen. ’Tis strange, think ye not?”
4. Aslaunch. Aslant or obliquely. As we would now say, “Out of the corner of
the eye.”

(Leta) “Nay, Timon, I full oft do pause and peer on high to see her
at the summertide. Like a swan she bendeth, all white, amid her
garden ’long the lake, and even ’tempts to come adown the path to
us below. And ever at her heels the pea-fowl struts.
“She ne’er doth see my beckoning, but do I come with Tina at my
breast she doth smile and wave and sway her arms a-cradle-wise.
“They tell, but breathlessly, that she doth sadly say the Stranger
bideth here.”
(Timon) “I’ll pit my patch ’gainst purse o’ gold, that ‘Mad Marye’
fitteth her as surely as ‘Peaceful John’ doth fit her sire. Thee
knowest ’peace’ to him is of his cutting, and ’piece’ doth patch his
ripping.
“They’ve bid a feast at Christ-night, and ye shouldst see the stir! I
fain would see Sir John at good dark on that eve, besmeared with
boar grease and soaked with ale, his mouth adrip with filth, and
every peasant there who serves his bolts shall hit. And Lady Marye
setteth like a lily under frost!
“Leta, little one, thine eyes do blink like stars beshadowed in a
cloudy veil. Come, bend thy knee and slip away to dream!”
(Little Leta prays) “Vast blue above, wherein the angels hide; and
moon, his lamp o’ love; and cloud fleece white—art thou the wool to
swaddle Him? And doth His mother bide upon a star-beam that
leadeth her to thee? I bless Thy name and pray Thee keep my sire
to watch full well his flock. And put a song in every coming day; my
Tina’s coo, and mother’s song at eve. Goodnight, sweet night! I
know He watcheth thee and me.”
(Timon) “He heareth thee, my Leta. Watch ye the star on high.
See ye, it winketh knowingly. God rest ye, blest.”
(At the Castle.)
(Lady Marye) “And I the Lady Marye, o’ the lord’s estate! Jana,
fetch me a goblet that I drink.”
(Jana) “Aye, lady. A wine, perchance?”
(Lady Marye) “Nay, for yester thou didst fetch me wine, and I did
cast it here upon the flags. Its stain thee still canst see. Shouldst
thou fetch a goblet filled to brim with crystal drops, and I should
cast it here, the greedy stone would sup it up, and where be then
the stain? Think ye the stone then the wiser o’ the two?
“I but loosed my fancy from its tether to gambol at its will, and
they do credit me amiss. I weave not with strand upon a wheel. ’Tis
not my station. Nay, I dally through the day with shuttle-cock and
regal—a fitting play for yonder babe.
“Jana, peer ye to the valley there. Doth see the Stranger? He
knocketh at the sill o’ yonder cot.
“I saw him when the cotter locked the sheep to tap a straying ewe
who lagged, and he did enter as the cotter stepped within—
unbidden, Jana, that I swear—and now he knocketh there!”
(Jana) “Nay, lady, ’tis but a barish limb that reacheth o’er the door.
The cotter heedeth not, ye see.”
(Lady Marye) “I do see him now to enter, and never did he turn!
Jana, look ye now! Doth still befriend a doubt?”
(Jana) “Come, lady, look! Sirrah John hath sent ye this, a posey,
wrought o’ gold and scented with sweet oils.”
(Lady Marye) “Ah, Jana, ’tis a hateful sight to me—a posey I may
keep! Why, the losing o’ the blossom doth but make it dear!
“Stay! I know thee’lt say ’twas proffered with his love. But, Jana,
thou hast much to learn. What, then, is love? Can I then sort my
tinder for its building and ply the glass to start its flame? The day is
o’er full now of ones who tried the trade. Nay, Jana, only when He
toucheth thee and bids thee come and putteth to thy hand His own
doth love abide with thee.
“Come to the turret, then. I do find me whetted for a look within.
“How cool the eve! ’Tis creepy to the marrow. Look ye down the
hillside there below. See ye the cotter’s taper burning there? How
white the night! ’Tis put upon the earth a mantling shroud, and
sailing in the silver sky a fairy boat. Perchance it bringeth us the
Babe.
“Jana, see’st thou the Stranger? He now doth count the sheep.
Dare I trust him there? I see him fondling a lamb and he doth hold it
close unto his breast.”
(Jana) “Nay, lady, ’tis the shepherd’s dog who skulketh now ahind
the shelter wall.”
(Lady Marye) “Ah, give me, spite o’ this, the power to sing like
Thine own bird who swayeth happily upon the forest bough and
pours abroad his song where no man heareth him.
“Hear ye them below within the hall? They do lap at swine-broth.
Their cups do clank. At morrow’s eve they feast and now do need to
stretch their paunches. Full often have I seen my ladye mother’s
white robe stained crimson for a jest, and oftener have I been
gagged to swallow it. But, Jana, I do laugh, for the greatest jest is
he who walloweth in slime and thinketh him a fish.”
(Jana) “See, Lady Marye! This, thy mother’s oaken chest, it still
doth bear a scent o’ her. And this, thy gown o’ her own fashioning.”
(Lady Marye) “Yea, Jana, and this o’ her, a strand wound to a ball
for mine own casting. And this! I tell thee, ’tis oft and oft she did
press me to her own breast and chide me with her singing voice: ‘My
Marye, ’tis a game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours o’ seeking
happiness. When ye would catch the rogue he flitteth on.’
“See, these spots o’ yellowed tears—the rusting of her heart away!
Stay, Jana, I’ll teach thee a trick o’ tripping, for she full oft did say a
heart could hide aneath a tripping.
“Thee shouldst curtsey so; and spread thy fan. ’Tis such a shield
to hide ahind. Then shouldst thy heart to flutter, trip out its measure,
so. See, I do laugh me now—nay, ’tis ne’er a tear, Jana, ’tis the mist
o’ loving! Doth see the moon hath joined the dance? Or, am I
swooning? ’Tis fancy. See, the cotter’s taper still doth flicker from the
shutter. What’s then amiss? The stranger, Jana! See! He entereth the
shelter place! Come, I fear me lest I see too much? Lend me thy
hand. I’ve played the jane-o-apes till the earth doth seem awry.
“Hear ye the wine-soaked song, and aye, the feed-drunkened? My
sire, Jana, my sire! I do grow hateful of myself, but mark ye, at the
setting o’ the feast I do wage him war at words! A porridge pot doth
brew for babes; I promise ye a full loaf. Do drop the curtain now, I
weary me with reasoning.”
(Morning at the Castle Gate.)
(Tito) “Aho, within! Thine eyes begummed and this the Christ-eve
and mornin’ come? Scatter! Petro, stand ahand! I do fetch ye
sucklings agagged with apples red. Ye gad, my mouth doth slime! To
whiff a hungerfull would make the sages wag.”
(Petro) “Amorrow, Tito. Thee’lt wear thee white as our own Lady
long afore ye e’en canst dip thy finger in the drip.”
(Tito) “Pst! Petro, I did steal the brain and tung. Canst leave me
have a peep now to the hall? Jesu! What a breeder o’ sore bellies.
I’d pay my price to heaven to rub Sir John a briskish rub with mullien
o’er the back.
“They do tell me down below that trouble bideth Timon. His Tina
layeth dull and Leta doth little but mumble prayer.”
(Petro) “Tito, thee art a chanter of sad lays at this Christ-time. Go
thou to the turret and play ye at the pipes. Put thee the sucklings to
the kitchen, aside the fire dogs there. And Tito, thee’lt find a
pudding pan ahind the brushbox. Go thee and lick it there!”
(To Sir John) “Aye, I do come, my lord. ’Tis but the sucklers come.
I know not where in the castle she doth bide, but hark ye and ye’ll
surely hear the pipes.”
(Sir John) “Bah! Damn the drivelling pipes! I do hear them late
and early. ’Tis a fine bird for a lordly nest! Go, fetch her here! But
no, I’d tweak her at a vaster sitting. Get thee, thou grunting swine!
And take this as thy Christ-gift. I’d deal thee thrice the measure wert
not to save these lordly legs. Here, fetch me a courser. I’d ride me to
the hounds. And strip him of his foot cloth, that I do waste me not a
blow. Dost like the smart? Or shall I ply it more? Thee’lt dance to
tune, or damn ye, run from cuts!
“Ho, Timon, how goes it with the brat? The world’s o’erfull o’
cattle now!”
(Timon) “Yea, sire, so did my Leta say when she did see thee
come. ’Tis with our Tina as a bird behovered in the day. Aday, and
God forgive thee.”
(In Lady Marye’s Chamber.)
(Lady Marye) “Jana, morn hath come. ’Tis Christ-tide and He not
here! My limbs do fail, and how do I then to stand me thro’ the day?
The feast, the feast, yea, the feast! The day doth break thro’ fog in
truth!
“My mother’s bridal robe! Go, Jana, fetch it me, and one small
holly bough. Lend me a hand. I fain would see the cot.
“See thou! The sun doth love it, too, and chooseth him to rise him
o’er its roof! Hath thee seen the herder yet to buckle loose the
shelter place? And, Jana, did all seem well to thee? Nay, the
Stranger, Jana! See, he still doth hold the lamb! ‘My Marye, ’tis a
game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours.’ In truth, ’tis put.
“Jana, I did dream me like a babe the night hours through; a
dream so sweet, o’ vast blue above wherein the angels hid, and I did
see the Christ-child swaddled in a cloud; and Mary, maid of sorrows,
led to him adown a silver beam.
“Then thee dost deem my fitful fancy did but play me false? Stay
thou, my tears, and, heart o’ me, who knoweth He doth watch o’er
thee and me?
“Her robe! Ah, Fancy, ’tis thy right that thou art ever doubted. For
thou art a conjurer, a trickster, verily. What chamming[5] joy didst
thee then offer her?
5. Obsolete form of “champing.” Used here figuratively.

“Thou cloud of billowed lace, a shield befitting her pure heart! And
I the flowering of the bud! Hear me, all this o’ her! I love thee well,
and should the day but offer a bitter draft to quaff, ’tis but to whet
me for a sweeter drink. And mother, heart o’ me, hearken and do
believe. I love my sire, Sir John.
“Come, Jana. Hear ye the carolers? Their song doth filter thro’ my
heart and lighten it. The snow doth tweak aneath their feet like
pipes to ’company them. Cast ye a bit o’ holly and a mistletoe.
“The feasters come to whet them with a pudding whiff. See, my
sire doth ride him up the hill and o’er his saddle front a fallow deer.
Hear thee the cheering that he comes! Her loved, my Jana, and her
heart doth beat through me!
“Christ-love to thee, my sire! Dost hear me here? And I do pledge
it thee upon His precious drops caught by the holly tree. He seeth
not, but she doth know!”
(Christmas Eve.)
(Jana) “My lady, who doth come a knocking at the door? ’Tis
Petro, come to bid ye to the feast.”
(Petro) “The candles are long since lit and Sirrah John hath
wearyed him with jest. The feasting hath not yet begun, for he doth
wait thee to drink a health to feasters in the hall.”
(Lady Marye) “Yea, Petro, say unto my sire, the Lady Marye
comes. And say ye more, she bids the feasters God-love. And say
thee more, she doth bear the blessings of her Lady Mother who
wisheth God’s love to them all. And fetch ye candle trees to scores,
and fetch the dulcimer and one who knocketh on its strings, and let
him patter forth a lively tune, for Lady Marye comes.
“Jana, look ye once again to the valley there. The tapers burn not
for Christ-night. Nay, a sickly gleam, and see, the Stranger, how he
doth hold the lamb! And o’er his face a smile—or do my eyes beblur,
and doth he weep?”
(Jana) “Nay, lady, all is dark. ’Tis but the whitish snow and shadow
pitted by the tapers’ light.”
(Lady Marye) “Fetch me then my fan. I go to meet my Lord. Doth
hear? Already they do play. I point me thus, and trip my heart’s full
measure.”
(In the Hall.)
 (Sir John) “So, lily-lip, thee’lt scratch! Thy silky paw hath claws,
eh? Egad! A phantom! A ghoulish trick! My head doth split and
where my tung? Get ye! Why sit like grinning asses! And where thy
tungs? My God! What scent o’ graves she beareth with that shroud!”
(Lady Marye) “God cheer, my lord, and doth my tripping suit thee
well? These flags are but my heart and hers, and do I bruise them
well for thee? Ah, aha! See, I do spread my fan. To shield my tears,
ye think? Nay, were they to fall like Mayday’s rain and thee wert
buried ’neath a stone, as well then could’st thou see! And yet I love
thee well. See thee, my sire, I pour this to thee!
“Look ye, good people at the feast; the boar is ready to slip its
bones.
(Aside) “God, send Thy mantling love here to Thine own! For
should I judge, when Thou I know dost love the saint and sinner as
Thine own?
“To thee, my sire, to thee!”

And gusted wind did flick the tapers out and they did hear her
murmuring “The Stranger! He doth bid me come!”
And to this day they tell that Lady Marye cast the wine into a
suckler’s mouth and never did she drink!
“By all the saints! Do thee go and search!”
Thus spake her sire, Sir John. And all the long night thro’ the
torches gleamed, but all in vain. And they do say that Sirrah John
did shake him in a chilling and flee him to a friar, while still the
search did last.
(In Timon’s Cot.)
(Leta) “Timon, waken ye! Our Leta still doth court her dreams and
I do weary me. The long night thro’ the feasters cried them thro’ the
hills and none but Him could shield our Tina from their din.
“Take heart, my lad, I fear me yet to look within the crib. Hold
thou my hand, man. Nay, not yet! Come, waken Leta that she then
do feed thy lambs.”
 (Timon) “Come, Leta, wake! The sun hath tipped the crown o’
yonder hill and spread a blush adown her snow-white side.”
(Leta) “Yea, sire. And Tina, how be she?”
(Timon) “A fairy, sleeping, Tad.”
(Leta) “Ah, sire, but I did dream the dark o’ yesterday away. And,
mother, she doth strain unto the sun! I see her eyes be-glistened.
See, the frost-cart dumped beside our door, and look ye! he, the
Frost man, put a cap upon the chimney pot. I’ll fetch a brush and
fan away his cloak. My Christ-gift, it would be my Tina’s smile. She
did know me not at late o’ night; think ye it were the dark? Stay,
sire! I’ll cast the straw and put the sheep aright!” (Exit.)

(Timon) “My Leta, come! Thy Christ-gift bideth o’er our Tina’s lips
and she doth coo!”
(Leta) “Timon, call aloud, that she heareth thee. Leta! Leta! Little
one! Dost hear thy sire to call? Why, what’s amiss with thee? Thy
staring eyes, my child! Speak thou!”
(Leta) “Sh-e-e-e! Sire, His mother’s come! And, ah, my heart! All
white she be an’ crushed unto her breast a holly bough, and one
white arm doth circle o’er a lamb! See, sire, the snow did drift it
thro’ and weave a fairy robe to cover her.”
(Timon) “Who leaveth by the door; a stranger?”
(Leta) “Nay, He bideth here.”
(Timon) “The Lady Marye, on my soul! Leta, drop ye here thy
tears, for madness bideth loosed upon the earth! And shouldst——”
(Leta) “Nay, sire! Who cometh there?”

And searchers there did find the Lady Marye, dead, amid the
lambs and snow—a flowering o’ the rose upon a bush o’ thorn.
And hark ye! At the time when winter’s blast doth sound, thee’lt
hear the wailing o’ the Lady Marye’s pipes, and know the Stranger
bideth o’er the earth.
 The two dramatic stories presented here were but a paving of the
way for larger work. “The Stranger” had been hardly completed
when Patience announced, “Thee’lt sorry at the task I set thee next.”
And then she began the construction of a drama that in its delivery
consumed the time of the sittings for several weeks, and it contained
when finished some 20,000 words. It is divided into six acts, each
with a descriptive prologue, and three of the acts have two scenes
each, making nine scenes in all. It, like the two shorter sketches, is
medieval in scene, and the pictures which it presents of the customs
and costumes and manners of the thirteenth or fourteenth century
(the period is not definitely indicated) are amazingly vivid. It has a
somewhat intricate plot, which is carried forward rapidly and its
strands skillfully interwoven until the nature of the fabric is revealed
in the sixth act. This play is much more skillfully constructed in
respect of stage technique than the two playlets that preceded it,
and it could, no doubt, be produced upon the stage with perhaps a
little alteration to adapt it to modern conditions. Some idea of its
beauty, its sprightliness and its humor may be obtained from the
prologue to the first act, which follows:

Wet earth, fresh trod.

Highway cut to wrinkles with cart wheels born in with
o’erloading. A flank o’ daisy flowers and stones rolled o’er in
blanketing o’ moss. Brown o’ young oak-leaves shows soft amid
the green. Adown a steep unto the vale, hedged in by flowering
fruit and threaded through with streaming silver o’ the brook,
where rushes shiver like to swishing o’ a lady’s silk.
Moss-lipped log doth case the spring who mothereth the
brook, and ivy hath climbed it o’er the trunk and leafless branch
o’ yonder birch, till she doth stand bedecked as for a folly dance.
 Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
Rat-a-tat! Sh-h-h-h!

From out the thick where hides the logged and mud-smeared
shack.
Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
Sh-h-h-h!
And hark ye, to the tanner’s song!

Up, up, up! and down, down, down!

A hammer to smite
And a hand to pound!
A maid to court,
And a swain to woo,
A heiffer felled
And I build a shoe!
A souse anew in yonder vat,
And I’ll buy my lady
A feathered hat!

The play then begins with the tanner and his apprentice, and the
action soon leads to the royal castle, where the exquisite love story
is developed, without a love scene. There is no tragedy in the story.
It is all sentiment, and humor. And it is filled with poetry. Consider,
for example, this description of Easter morn, from the prologue to
the sixth act:
The earth did wake with boughs aburst. A deadened apple
twig doth blush at casting Winter’s furry coat, to find her naked
blooms abath in sun. The feathered hosts, atuned, do carol, “He
hath risen!” E’en the crow with envy trieth melody and soundeth
as a brass; and listening, loveth much his song. Young grasses
send sweet-scented damp through the hours of risen day. The
bell, atoll, doth bid the village hence. E’en path atraced through
velvet fields hath flowered with fringing bloom and jeweled
drops, atempting tarriers. The sweet o’ sleep doth grace each
venturing face. The kine stand knee depth within the silly-
tittered brook, or deep in bog awallow. Soft breath ascent and
lazy-eyed, they wait them for the stripping-maid.
 The play is permeated with rich humor, and to illustrate this I give
a bit of the dialogue between Dougal, the page, and Anne, the
castle cook. To appreciate it one must know a little of the story. The
hand of the Princess Ermaline is sought by Prince Charlie, a
doddering old rake, whom she detests, but whom for reasons of
state she may be compelled to accept. However, she vows she will
not speak while he is at court, nor does she utter a word, in the
play, until the end of the last act. She has fallen in love with a
troubadour, who has come from no one knows where, but who by
his grace and his wit and his intelligence has made himself a favorite
with all the castle folk. Anne has a roast on the spit, and is scouring
a pot with sand and rushes, when Dougal enters the kitchen.
Dougal.—“Anne, goody girl, leave me but suck a bone. My
sides have withered and fallen in, in truth.”
Anne.—“Get ye, Dougal! Thy footprints do show them in
grease like to the Queen’s seal upon my floor!”
Dougal.—“The princess hath bidden me to stay within her call,
but she doth drouse, adrunk on love-lilt o’ the troubadour, and
Prince of Fools (Prince Charlie) hath gone long since to beauty
sleep. He tied unto his poster a posey wreath, and brushed in
scented oils his beauteous locks, and sung a lay to Ermaline, and
kissed a scullery wench afore he slept.”
Anne.—“The dog! I’d love a punch to shatter him! And
Ermaline hath vowed to lock her lips and pass as mute until his
going.”
Dougal.—“Yea, but eye may speak, for hers do flash like
lightning, and though small, her foot doth fall most weighty to
command.
“Yester, the Prince did seek her in the throne room. He’d tied
his kerchief to a sack and filled it full o’ blue-bells, and minced
him ’long the halls astrewing blossoms and singing like to a
frozen pump.
“Within the chamber, Ermaline did hide her face in dreading to
behold him come, but at the door he spied the dear and
bounded like a puppy ’cross the flags, apelting her with blooms
and sputtering ’mid tee-hees. She, tho’, did spy him first, and
 measured her his sight and sudden slipped her ’neath the table
shroud. And he, Anne, I swear, sprawled him in his glee and rose
to find her gone. And whacked my shin, the ass, acause I
heaved at shoulders.”
Anne.—“Ah, Dougal, ’tis a weary time, in truth. Thee hadst
best to put it back, to court thy mistress’ whim. Good sleep, ye!
And Dougal, I have a loving for the troubadour. Whence cometh
he?”
Dougal.—“Put thy heart to rest, good Anne; he’s but a piper
who doth knock the taber’s end and coaxeth trembling strings by
which to sing. He came him out o’ nothing, like to the night or
day. We waked to hear him singing ’neath the wall.”
Anne.—“Aye, but I do wag! For surely thee doth see how
Ermaline doth court his song.”
Dougal.—“Nay, Anne, ’tis but to fill an empty day.”

When Patience had finished this she preened herself a little. “Did I
not then spin a lengthy tale?” she asked. But immediately she began
work upon another, a story of such length that it alone will make a
book. It differs in many respects from her other works, particularly in
the language, and from a literary standpoint is altogether the most
amazing of her compositions. This, too, is dramatic in form, but
scene often merges into scene without division, and it has more of
the characteristics of the modern story. It is, however, medieval, but
it is a tale of the fields, primarily, the heroine, Telka, being a farm
lass, and the hero a field hand. Perhaps this is why the obscure
dialectal forms of rural England of a time long gone by are woven
into it. In this Patience makes an astonishingly free use of the prefix
“a,” in place of a number of prefixes, such as “be” and “with,” now
commonly used, and she attaches it to nouns and verbs and
adjectives with such frequency as to make this usage a prominent
feature of the diction. Let me introduce Telka in the words of
Patience: