And in those days that used to be The gypsy wind that raced the sea Came singing of enchanted lands, Of sapphire waves on golden sands, Of wind-borne fleets that race the swallow, Of Squirrel-fairy in her hollow, Of brooklets full of scattered stars, And odorous herbs by pasture-bars Where to the cow-bells' tinkling chime Come dreams of Once-upon-a-Time! O little girl who used to be, The days are long in Faerie,-- Their garnered sunshine's wealth of gold No royal treasure-vault may hold. And now, as if our earth possessed Alchemy's fabled Alkahest, Our harbors blaze with jewelled light, Our air-ships wing their circling flight, And we ourselves are in the rime That sings of Once-upon-a-Time! I PEIROL OF THE PIGEONS It was a great day in Count Thibaut's castle. Every one knew that, down to the newest smallest scullery-maid. The Count had come home from England with Lady Philippa, his daughter, and there would be feasting and song and laughter for days and days and days. Ranulph the troubadour, who had arrived in their company, was glad of a quiet hour in the garden before supper was served. He knew that he would have to sing that evening, and he wished to go over the melodies he had in mind, for he might on the spur of the moment compose new words to them. In fact a song in honor of his hostess was already in his thoughts. The very birds of the air seemed to welcome her. The warm southern winds were full of their warbling--beccafico, loriot, merle, citronelle, woodlark, nightingale,--every tree, copse and tuft of grass held a tiny minstrel. When the great gate opened to a fanfare of trumpets, from the castle walls there came the murmur of innumerable doves. A castle had its dove-cote as it had its poultry-yard or rabbit-warren, but the birds were not always so fearless or so many. The song was nearly finished when the singer became aware that some one else was in the garden. A small boy, with serious dark eyes and a white pigeon in his arms, stood close by. Ranulph smiled a persuasive smile which few children could resist. “And who are you, my lad?” “Peirol, the gooseherd's boy,” the youngster replied composedly. “You're none of the family, are you?” “Only a jongleur. You have a great many pigeons here.” “That's why I came in when I heard you playing. Does she--Lady Philippa--like pigeons?” “I think she does. In fact I know she does. Why?” “Grandfather said she would not care how many pigeons were killed to make pies. Nobody really loves them much, but me. They're fond of me too.” The boy gave a low call and a soft rush of wings was heard in every direction. Pigeons flew from tree-top, tower, parapet and gable, alighting on his head and arms until he looked like a little pigeon-tree in full bloom.