PARABLES OF A PROVINCE

By Gilbert Parker



THE GOLDEN PIPES
THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE
BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE
THE SINGING OF THE BEES
THE WHITE OMEN
THE SOJOURNERS
THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT
THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY
THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY




THE GOLDEN PIPES

They hung all bronzed and shining, on the side of Margath Mountain--the
tall and perfect pipes of the organ which was played by some son of God
when the world was young. At least Hepnon the cripple said this was so,
when he was but a child, and when he got older he said that even now a
golden music came from the pipes at sunrise and sunset. And no one
laughed at Hepnon, for you could not look into the dark warm eyes,
dilating with his fancies, or see the transparent temper of his face, the
look of the dreamer over all, without believing him, and reproving your
own judgment. You felt that he had travelled ways you could never travel,