We are thy people in court or by campfire,--
We are thy slaves, O Puck!

We are the dancers whose morris-bells ringing
Sound the death-knell of our years.
We are the harpers who turn into singing
Our hopes and our foves and our fears.
Thine is the tribute wrung hard from our anguish
After the death blows are struck.
We are thy bondmen who jest while we languish,--
We are thy souls, O Puck!




III

THE PUPPET PLAYERS


In a blinding snow-storm that blotted out the roads and obscured the
outlines of the densely forested mountains, two youths and a small donkey
struggled over a mountain trail. Twice the donkey had to be pulled bodily
out of a drift, and once for an hour or more the wayfarers were racked by
the fear that they had lost their direction altogether. But at last, in
the edge of the evening, they saw the lights of the city twinkling like a
miniature Milky Way, and urged on their tired beast in the certainty of
food and shelter at the end of the day.

They were very unlike, these two strangers. He who seemed the leader was a