The Jester drew his hood over his head and went to his cell. His Lady had no doubt as to what he would bring back to her, for she had learnt from him that love gives all things without question or regret. The Jester quite simply collected all the instruments he had made during the long years of his youth and his manhood. They were precious to him, for he had not been able to buy as others because of his poverty. He had gone even to the offal of the slaughter-houses, and to the dank banks of the ponds, and the waste places in hills and valleys for the things which gave his instruments such power over men with the strange cries he evoked. The Jester’s sadness had been greater than even his poverty, but the music had never failed to comfort and strengthen him. Voices from the over-world and under-world spoke to him, and the strange secrets he translated into sound. The Jester’s heart was glad at last. His Lady had need of him and of what he had made. His music was hers as his heart was hers. He laid all his precious instruments at her feet and looked in her eyes. There were smiles for him there. She bent as he knelt and took his head, as of old, between her long cool hands, and kissed his brow. “Happy, happy Fool,” she cried, “thus to be able to give all. I will break hearts with the sweetness of these strings, I will bind others to me and know it is thy gift. Happy Fool! Goodbye!” “May God comfort thee and me,” said the Jester, as he turned toward his cell. THE JESTER SLEEPS “The Jester is dead.” The words were said gravely, and the Lady who heard them looked keenly in an old man’s face. “Dead,” she cried. “Yes! Found dead this morning. We could not find his cap and bells nor the instruments he loved more than all other things. There seems no more music in the world now, for we all grew happy through his music and the sun.” “Dead!” she whispered. “May I....” She hesitated. “Yes, come.” The old man led the way. “He is there. We found nothing by him but the leaves of a dead white rose and the wind from his window blew them on to his breast.” “He smiles,” said the Lady. There was silence in the cell except for the fierce howling of an April wind and the tiny fluttering of the leaves on the breast of the Jester. The Lady turned towards the door. “His instruments are at the gate,” she said, impatiently. “Why did he die, I wonder? The reeds are no use to me. I cannot play upon them ... not a sound will come.” Green Symphony JOHN GOULD FLETCHER I The glittering leaves of the rhododendrons Balance and vibrate in the cool air; While in the sky above them White clouds chase each other. Like scampering rabbits, Flashes of sunlight sweep the lawn; They fling in passing Patterns of shadow, Golden and green.