woods mostly, but with one corner of splendid old pines. We sat under them and Dean read Peveril of the Peak and some of Scott’s poems to me; and then he looked up into the big, plumy boughs and said,
“‘The gods are talking in the pines—gods of the old northland—of the viking sagas. Star, do you know Emerson’s lines?’
“And then he quoted them—I’ve remembered and loved them ever since.
They talk in the shaken pine,
And they fill the reach of the old seashore
With dialogue divine;
And the poet who overhears
One random word they say
Is the fated man of men
Whom the ages must obey.’
“Oh, that ‘random word’—that is the Something that escapes me. I’m always listening for it—I know I can never hear it—my ear isn’t attuned to it—but I am sure I hear at times a little, faint, far-off echo of it—and it makes me feel a delight that is like pain and a despair of ever being able to translate its beauty into any words I know.
“Still, it is a pity I made such a goose of myself immediately after that wonderful experience.
“If I had just floated up behind Mr. Johnson, as velvet-footedly as darkness herself, and poured his tea gracefully from Great-grandmother. Murray’s silver teapot, like my shadow-woman pouring night into the white cup of Blair Valley, Aunt Elizabeth would be far better pleased with me than if I could write the most wonderful poem in the world.
“Cousin Jimmy is so different. I recited my poem to him this evening after we had finished with the catalogue and he thought it was beautiful. (He couldn’t know how far it fell short of what I had seen in my mind.) Cousin
