Before the snows are melted that cradle the mountain streams, Before the bear and the dormouse rouse from their winter dreams, Before the earliest linnet flutes forth his roundel clear, There comes an authentic moment that marks the turn of the year. A brightness in the sunshine, a hint of life in the air, A soft mist veiling the hilltops that were so brown and bare, Nothing to note or ponder, nothing to see or hear,-- But there is a mystic difference that marks the turn of the year! Light as the wings of a sea-mew in the rush of startled flight, Cool as the touch of clover, shy as the dews of night, Strong as the love of freedom, sudden as panic fear, The restless gypsy longing wakes at the turn of the year. Why do we toil and swelter over the task we hate? What is to keep us fettered to the benches of sullen Fate? There is nothing half so fleeting,--there is nothing half so dear As the unfulfilled desire that comes with the turn of the year! X FOOLS' GOLD “Yes,” acknowledged old Tomaso thoughtfully, “I knew Archiater of Byzantium very well at one time,--and yet no one ever really knew much about him. He was more than a clever alchemist,--he was a discoverer of secrets, and a good man. But for all that, he was condemned and executed as a wizard.” Alan of York said nothing for a minute, but his fist clenched where it lay on the table. “How could such a thing happen?” he said at last in a low voice. “Naturally enough, when wisdom must ever contend against the whelming force of folly. But there is something worse--the will of a ruler seeking to enslave knowledge to his own purpose. A madman with ideals is bad enough, but Barbarossa's son is a diabolically sane person without any. A man is not called 'the Cruel' without reason.” “But what object--” Alan began, and paused. “Archiater the physician, as I knew him, would have been rather worse than useless to that prince as I have heard of him,” answered the Paduan deliberately. “Such a patron demands creatures who do as they are told,--which is not the duty of a philosopher. The easiest way to dispose of a man who knows too much is to dub him a wizard. But, of course, all this is merely guessing in the dark.