_Read here the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea._ Because he lived among a simple folk, Because his village was between the hills, Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes, He cut an idol from a fallen pine, Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown. And all the village praised him for this craft, And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds. Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad, He scratched upon that log: “_Thus Gods are made, And whoso makes them otherwise shall die._” And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died. _Read here the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea._ Because his God decreed one clot of blood Should swerve one hair's-breadth from the pulse's path, And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone, Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields, Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees, And mocking at the mist, until his God Drove him to labour. Out of dung and horns Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God, Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts, And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time, He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds, And howled among the beasts: “_Thus Gods are made, And whoso makes them otherwise shall die._” Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died. Yet at the last he came to Paradise, And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote; And marvelled, being very near to God, What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law, Till God said mocking: “Mock not. These be thine.” Then cried Evarra: “I have sinned!” -- “Not so. If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods Had rested in the mountain and the mine, And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods, And thy more wondrous law, Evarra. Thine, Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine.” Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes, Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise. _This is the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea._ THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It's pretty, but is it Art?” Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -- The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.