a sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now
winter reigns, and through the snow-filled air swirl flocks
of swans and rattling hailstones beat upon the boughs with
fierce delight.

Then Peiwoh changed the key and sang of love. The forest
swayed like an ardent swain deep lost in thought. On high,
like a haughty maiden, swept a cloud bright and fair; but
passing, trailed long shadows on the ground, black like
despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwoh sang of
war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the
harp arose the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rode the
lightning, the thundering avalanche crashed through the
hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch asked Peiwoh wherein
lay the secret of his victory. "Sire," he replied, "others have
failed because they sang but of themselves. I left the harp to
choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had
been Peiwoh or Peiwoh were the harp."

This story well illustrates the mystery of art appreciation.
The masterpiece is a symphony played upon our finest
feelings. True art is Peiwoh, and we the harp of Lungmen.
At the magic touch of the beautiful the secret chords of
our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response
to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken,
we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we
know not of. Memories long forgotten all come back to us
with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings
that we dare not recognise, stand forth in new glory. Our
mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their