Or else another, mightier than Pan, That Other who has neither form nor speech, Who stops the spider ere he weaves his span, Or lizard, darting o’er the fallen beech, Who draws a film across the doe’s brown eyes, And takes the lark, though high and high he flies And dreams him out of reach. He blows the noiseless reed which none may hear Save such as he would draw unto his hand. He takes a tribute of the waking year, And wanders, piping, through the flowery land. And there a locust hears him and is mute; And here a rabbit leaves a nibbled root To hark and understand. O piper in the shadows, pipe once more! Send but one call from out the fading west! Aye, though I crouch behind my cavern door, One note of thine would draw me to the quest, To journey past the sunset and the rain, Where I may find my people once again, And the lost winds find rest. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE COUNTRY OF THE DORMER-WINDOW MURRAY BAY, A CANADIAN SUMMER RESORT BY HENRY DWIGHT SEDGWICK WITH PICTURES BY W. T. BENDA The way to go to Murray Bay is down the St. Lawrence by boat from Quebec. There is, indeed, another way, which most people take, but it should be taken only by impatient travelers who prefer a speedy to a picturesque arrival. The “bateau” is one of the three paddle-wheel boats that ply between Quebec and the Saguenay River. Each bateau has its own character, its own history, its own aliases. A bateau regards shipwreck as a baptism, and thereupon takes a new name and a new coat of paint. The dean of the fleet, at least according to the Murray Bay tradition, is a sort of Methuselah. The story goes that before our Civil War, in the days when the Mississippi ran unvexed to the gulf, when young Sam Clemens was crying out “Mark Twain,” a paddle-wheeler plied between New Orleans and Vicksburg--but this gossip is beneath the dignity of history. The bateau, whatever its dubious past may have been, leaves the wharf at Quebec at eight o’clock in the morning and arrives at Murray Bay at half-past one. This legend, which I take from the Richelieu and Ontario time-table, is less trustworthy than the other. Let us come to facts. At some time or other the bateau leaves Quebec; it passes the Ile d’Orleans, the Falls of Montmorency, and about sixty miles of beautiful shore; and after what, if the day be fine, is a most delightful sail, draws near to Bay St. Paul. This arrival is the prologue to Murray Bay. The bateau gyrates, heaves, trembles, and sidles toward the dock. Shouts from the bateau, answering shouts from the dock; the bateau hesitates, shivers, and like a tired cow comes diffidently up alongside. The passengers crowd to the landward rail; the population of Bay St. Paul crowds to the edge of the quay. A small coil of rope is hurled through the air from the bateau; it is caught by the population of Bay St.