There was once a time when all the earth was hidden under great waters. No island or continent gave foothold. No tree, torn from its moorings, afforded rest to tired foot or wing; for finny and winged people were all the inhabitants in being. Birds soared unceasingly in the air, and fish disported their beautiful armor-plate in the water. In the consciousness of bird and fish there was need of higher intelligences than themselves. They watched and waited for some hint, some glimpse, of other and superior beings. One day the birds, congregating in the sky, discoursing on this very matter, beheld a lovely woman dropping out of the far blue. Hurriedly they talked of possible means of saving her from drowning, for they had a subtle sense that this falling object, with arms outstretched like wings, was the being they hoped for. One of their number, a prophet, suggested the means. As the lovely being dropped toward the great sea the birds came together and lapped wings over wings in a thick feathered island. Upon the soft deck of this throbbing life-boat the beautiful being descended and lay panting. Slowly and lovingly her soft hand caressed the wings of her benefactors. She lifted the variously tinted plumage of the breasts on which she reclined, and kissed the down of them. That was long, long ago! We will conclude our text with the ending of the poem preceding the first chapter in our book, repeating four lines of the same, and dedicating this same "ending" to the Birds. While the church-bell rings its discourse They are sitting on the spires; Psalm and anthem, song and carol, Quaver as from mystic lyres. Wing and throat are in a tremor, While they pay their Sunday dues, And escorted by the ushers. They are sitting in the pews. Oh, the travesty of worship! Perched above each reverent face. Sit these feathered sacrifices. Closely pinioned to their place. Chant a dirge for woman's pity, Choir, before the text is read! Sing a requiem for compassion, Woman's tenderness is dead. On her head are funeral emblems; She has made herself a bier For the martyred birds who, shroudless, Coffinless, are waiting here. Eyes dilate and forms distorted. Praying as in dumb distress, Poising, crouching, reeling, swooning. Supplicating wretchedness. Twisted into shapes so ghastly, Frightful, grim, disconsolate; Writhing in a moveless torture. Passion inarticulate. Call it "love of what is lovely," "Choice of best in nature's grace," Back of all the giddy tangle Lurks the tradesman's wily face, E.G. * * * * * Index [Transcriber Note: Although two unique copies of this volume are stored at The Internet Archive and both of them list an Index at Page 151, neither one of them has an Index and both end at Page 150.] * * * * *