"Pipe for me, you heathen minstrel!" I added, smiling at him with narrowed eyes. "Draw from that piece of wood the things the birds, and the trees, and the brooks, and the flowers have told you. Trill me a moonlight roundelay, such as inspires the feet of fairies; make me see the wood violets nodding in the warm dusk, and let me hear the drone of bees in the tiger-lily's cup. Sound for me the dream-song of the runlet, as it whispers and babbles over its pebbly bed and between its moss-draped banks in the silver starlight. Bring me the low love-message of the dove when the breeze is but a sigh, and the witch-light from a sun just sunk fills all the forest with a chastened radiance, and makes it one vast sanctuary upheld by a million pillars. It is there your patron lives--the great god Pan! Tell me not you've never heard him by the river bank o' quiet days, when the squirrels sleep, and the chipmunks drowse, and the birds forget their tunes. Belike you've never seen him, for to mortals he remains ever invisible; but you, O Satyr, are most surely a cousin, if not nearer kin, and it may be you and he have danced many a bacchanalian revel together. Dost know him--the great god Pan? Goat-legged, horn-headed, pleasure-loving, with his pipes to while the time?" I did not stop to consider that this outburst was jargon pure and simple to the ears which received it. My mind had suddenly become gorged with poetic thoughts, and I poured them out upon the helpless head of Jeff Angel. "Fur Gawd's sake!--air yo' plum' gone?" he exclaimed, in unfeigned alarm, casting a rapid glance around as though meditating flight. "That's what your juice did for me," I explained, laughing to reassure him of my sanity. "One more swallow, then we'll have a tune!" We pledged each other from our respective bottles, and the Satyr played.