His words were magic and his heart was true, And everywhere he wandered he was blessed. Out of all ancient men my childhood knew I choose him and I mark him for the best. Of all authoritative liars, too, I crown him loveliest. How fondly I remember the delight That always glorified him in the spring; The joyous courage and the benedight Profusion of his faith in everything! He was a good old man, and it was right That he should have his fling.... All summer long we loved him for the same Perennial inspiration of his lies; And when the russet wealth of autumn came, There flew but fairer visions to our eyes— Multiple, tropical, winged with a feathery flame, Like birds of paradise.... THROUGH ELLIS ISLAND Pascal D’Angelo was born, he says in an autobiographical sketch which he has let me see, “near the old walled city of Sulmona, Italy. It is a small town in the beautiful valley that was once the stronghold of the Samnites, walled in by the great blue barrens of Monte Majella. Few roads run to this quiet land and ancient traditions have never entirely died out there. Below the town is the garden of Ovid with its wild roses and cool springs, and above is an ancient castle that in summer is fantastically crowned with the mingling flight of pigeons which take care of their young on its towered heights. In the valley below are finely cultivated fields dotted with the ruins of Italica, the capital of fierce Samnium.” There Pascal D’Angelo went to school a very little during his childhood, handicapped by the fact that his parents at home could neither read nor write and that, because of their poverty, he was frequently obliged to stay at home to herd the family’s six or seven sheep and four goats. At sixteen he came with his father and a number of fellow-villagers to the United States.