The little fox a sack found in the street Through which he thrust his head; then shod his feet With iron shoes, and got a staff, I trow— False monk, false hermit, false recluse’s vow! The fox has sent the wolf to fetch the bear. “For him,” he said, “I live this life of care; Yet never hath he sent me aught to eat:— Sore are my knees with walking, sore my feet!” At morning dawn forth to the hunt they creep; A ram they catch, a lambkin and a sheep. Holy dispenser is the wolf proclaimed— Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named! He gives the sheep as portion to the bear; The lambkin falls to the poor hermit’s share. “The ram for me,” he said, “I’m tired and lamed”— Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named! The bear was wroth, and turned him round about, And with one blow the wolf’s two eyes put out. “That sheep for me, a bear so great and famed? Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!” The little fox is sore afraid, and sees A trap laid ready with a piece of cheese. “O uncle, see, I’ve built a convent here,” He said, “a place of rest, a place of prayer!” The bear stretched out his paw for the repast, The trap upon his neck closed hard and fast. “Help me, my little nephew, for I fear This is no convent, ’tis no house of prayer!” The little fox with joy beheld the whole And sang a mass for his great uncle’s soul. “The wrong thou didst the wolf has brought thee there; It is a house of rest, a house of prayer!” O sovereign Justice, much thou pleasest me— Who wrongs another soon shall cease to be. And fasting in the trap must lie the bear,— For ’tis a house of rest, a house of prayer! INCENSE By ZABELLE ESSAYAN (Born 1878) The incense at the altar slowly burns Swayed in the silver censer to and fro; Around the crucifix it coils and turns, The brows of saints it wreathes with misty glow. And tremulous petitions, long drawn out, Beneath the lofty arches faint away; To weary eyes the candles round about Heave as they flicker with their pallid ray. The sacred columns, grey and mouldering, Support a veil that stirs with voiceless sobs. Beneath it, like the incense smouldering, A woman’s darkened heart in anguish throbs. Consumed within the censer now, and burned, The incense through the boundless ether soars. What Matter was to Fragrance sweet is turned— The cleansing fire its purity restores. Nor shall that woman’s smouldering heart be freed,— Saved from its cold and adamantine shell,— Till it is melted, tried, and cleansed indeed, Till the pure flames shall all its dross expel! THE LITTLE LAKE [4] By BEDROS TOURIAN (1852–1872) Why dost thou lie in hushed surprise, Thou little lonely mere? Did some fair woman wistfully Gaze in thy mirror clear?