All of the valley was aloud with brooks;
I walked the morning, breasting up the fells,
Taking again lost childhood from the rooks,
Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells.

I had not walked that glittering world before,
But up the hill a prompting came to me,
"This line of upland runs along the shore:
Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea."

And on the instant from beyond away

That long familiar sound, a ship's bell, broke
The hush below me in the unseen bay.

Old memories came: that inner prompting spoke.

And bright above the hedge a seagull's wings
Flashed and were steady upon empty air.

"A Power unseen," I cried, "prepares these things; "Those are her bells, the Wanderer is there."

So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down,
I saw a mighty bay's wind-crinkled blue
Ruffling the image of a tranquil town,
With lapsing waters glittering as they grew.
And near me in the road the shipping swung,
So stately and so still in such great peace
That like to drooping crests their colors hung,
Only their shadows trembled without cease.
I did but glance upon those anchored ships,
Even as my thought had told, I saw her plain;
Tense, like a supple athlete with lean hips,
Swiftness at pause, the Wanderer come again-

Come as of old a queen, untouched by Time,
Resting the beauty that no seas could tire,
Sparkling, as though the midnight's rain were rime,
Like a man's thought transfigured into fire.

And as I looked, one of her men began
To sing some simple tune of Christmas Day;
Among her crew the song spread, man to man,
Until the singing rang across the bay;

And soon in other anchored ships the men
Joined in the singing with clear throats, until
The farm-boy heard it up the windy glen,
Above the noise of sheep-bells on the hill.

Over, the water came the lifted song-
Blind pieces in a mighty game we swing;
Life's battle is a conquest for the strong;
The meaning shows in the defeated thing.

Engraved on Wood by Henry Wolf from the Original Painting

"Lizzie Lynch," by J. Alden Weir

M

ODERN painters, through their finer vision and manual skill, have given us many intimate impressions of nature unrecorded before their time. To convey these impressions they have sought new modes of expression, modes which are not accepted readily by the public. Any new language of the brush always has been imposed with difficulty. How great the change in method is, as well as in taste and ideal, can best be appreciated by comparing a work of to-day with one of a generation ago. The older painters for the most part were story-tellers or photographers who appealed to a public of untrained vision. Modern artists approach their task in a different spirit, and show not what the observer sees, but what he ought to see.

Working on these lines, Mr. Weir has established an idiom of art expression which is recognized as his own, and in this work, which is the property of Mrs. H. M. Adams, of Glen Cove, his individual style is strongly marked. He has shown ingenuity in devising a technique to convey his sense of flesh and fabric. The whole painting seems combed into broken lines, giving an infinite number of surfaces over which the lights and shadows play, investing it with an opalescent envelope which subdues and harmonizes the whole. In fact, Mr. Weir is a harmonist rather than a picture-maker, and works with a different conception of his art than is to be found in the telling of a story or the presenting of a scene or object with scrupulous fidelity. His interest is in pushing to the extreme the particular mode of doing a thing to secure a particular result. In this instance the subject itself is an appealing one of great charm. Coupled with dignity of design, a fine balance of color values marks its scheme of delicate pink and gray. It reveals a belief in beauty for itself, a fastidious taste, and an artistic equipment of an unusual order.

W. STANTON HOWARD.

VOL. CXXVII.-No. 760.-67

A Question of Wills

BY ALICE BROWN