Fifty-One Tales | Page 7

maidens
sing on the hills in the older happier countries.
Then he went to some of that nation as they sat weary with the work of
the day and said to them: "I have made you some aimless songs out of
the small unreasonable legends, that are somewhat akin to the wind in
the vales of my childhood; and you may care to sing them in your
disconsolate evenings."
And they said to him:
"If you think we have time for that sort of nonsense nowadays you
cannot know much of the progress of modern commerce."
And the poet wept for he said: "Alas! They are damned."

THE LATEST THING
I saw an unclean-feeder by the banks of the river of Time. He crouched
by orchards numerous with apples in a happy land of flowers; colossal
barns stood near which the ancients had stored with grain, and the sun

was golden on serene far hills behind the level lands. But his back was
to all these things. He crouched and watched the river. And whatever
the river chanced to send him down the unclean-feeder clutched at
greedily with his arms, wading out into the water.
Now there were in those days, and indeed still are, certain uncleanly
cities upon the river of Time; and from them fearfully nameless things
came floating shapelessly by. And whenever the odor of these came
down the river before them the unclean-feeder plunged into the dirty
water and stood far out, expectant. And if he opened his mouth one saw
these things on his lips.
Indeed from the upper reaches there came down sometimes the fallen
rhododendron's petal, sometimes a rose; but they were useless to the
unclean-feeder, and when he saw them he growled.
A poet walked beside the river's bank; his head was lifted and his look
was afar; I think he saw the sea, and the hills of Fate from which the
river ran. I saw the unclean-feeder standing voracious, up to his waist
in that evil-smelling river.
"Look," I said to the poet.
"The current will sweep him away," the poet said.
"But those cities that poison the river," I said to him.
He answered: "Whenever the centuries melt on the hills of Fate the
river terribly floods."

THE DEMAGOGUE AND THE DEMI-MONDE
A demagogue and a demi-mondaine chanced to arrive together at the
gate of Paradise. And the Saint looked sorrowfully at them both.
"Why were you a demagogue?" he said to the first.

"Because," said the demagogue, "I stood for those principles that have
made us what we are and have endeared our Party to the great heart of
the people. In a word I stood unflinchingly on the plank of popular
representation."
"And you?" said the Saint to her of the demi-monde.
"I wanted money," said the demi-mondaine.
And after some moments' thought the Saint said: "Well, come in;
though you don't deserve to."
But to the demagogue he said: "We genuinely regret that the limited
space at our disposal and our unfortunate lack of interest in those
Questions that you have gone so far to inculate and have so ably upheld
in the past, prevent us from giving you the support for which you seek."
And he shut the golden door.

THE GIANT POPPY
I dreamt that I went back to the hills I knew, whence on a clear day you
can see the walls of Ilion and the plains of Roncesvalles. There used to
be woods along the tops of those hills with clearings in them where the
moonlight fell, and there when no one watched the fairies danced.
But there were no woods when I went back, no fairies nor distant
glimpse of Ilion or plains of Roncesvalles, only one giant poppy waved
in the wind, and as it waved it hummed "Remember not." And by its
oak-like stem a poet sat, dressed like a shepherd and playing an ancient
tune softly upon a pipe. I asked him if the fairies had passed that way or
anything olden.
He said: "The poppy has grown apace and is killing gods and fairies. Its
fumes are suffocating the world, and its roots drain it of its beautiful
strength." And I asked him why he sat on the hills I knew, playing an
olden tune.

And he answered: "Because the tune is bad for the poppy, which would
otherwise grow more swiftly; and because if the brotherhood of which I
am one were to cease to pipe on the hills men would stray over the
world and be lost or come to terrible ends. We think we have saved
Agamemnon."
Then he fell to piping again that olden tune, while the wind among the
poppy's sleepy petals murmured "Remember not. Remember not."

ROSES
I know a roadside