CHAPTER II



There is no bard in all the choir,
. . .
Not one of all can put in verse,
Or to this presence could rehearse
The sights and voices ravishing
The boy knew on the hills in spring,
When pacing through the oaks he heard
Sharp queries of the sentry-bird,
The heavy grouse's sudden whir,
The rattle of the kingfisher."
EMERSON'S Harp.

Now began an era of infinite happiness, of days that were never long
enough, of evenings when bedtime came all too soon. Oh, that there
had been some good angel who would have taken in hand Anthony Croft
the boy, and, training the powers that pointed so unmistakably in
certain directions, given to the world the genius of Anthony Croft,
potential instrument maker to the court of St. Cecilia; for it was
not only that he had the fingers of a wizard; his ear caught the
faintest breath of harmony or hint of discord, as


"Fairy folk a-listening
Hear the seed sprout in the spring,
And for music to their dance