and soon they were fighting and making harsh noise upon the air.
All of a sudden two other sparrows came sailing from the sky, and they sat quietly beside the restless two. And there was calm, and there was peace.
Then the four flew away together in pairs.
And the first branch said to his neighbouring branch, “That was a mighty zigzag of sound.”
And the other branch answered, “Call it what you will, it is now both peaceful and spacious. And if the upper air makes peace it seems to me that those who dwell in the lower might make peace also. Will you not wave in the wind a little nearer to me?”
And the first branch said, “Oh, perchance, for peace’ sake, ere the Spring is over.”
And then he waved himself with the strong wind to embrace her.
SEVENTY
The poet youth said to the princess, “I love you.” And the princess answered, “And I love you too, my child.”
“But I am not your child. I am a man and I love you.”
And she said, “I am the mother of sons and daughters, and they are fathers and mothers of sons and daughters; and one of the sons of my sons is older than you.”
And the poet youth said, “But I love you.”
It was not long after that the princess died. But ere her last breath was received again by the greater breath of earth, she said within her soul, “My beloved, mine only son, my youth-poet, it may yet be that some day we shall meet again, and I shall not be seventy.”
FINDING GOD
Two men were walking in the valley, and one man pointed with his finger toward the mountain side, and said, “See you that hermitage? There lives a man who has long divorced the world. He seeks but after God, and naught else upon this earth.”
And the other man said, “He shall not find God until he leaves his hermitage, and the aloneness of his hermitage, and returns to our world, to share our joy and pain, to dance with our dancers at the wedding feast, and to weep with those who weep around the coffins of our dead.”
And the other man was convinced in his heart, though in spite of his conviction he answered, “I agree with all that you say, yet I believe the hermit is a good man. And it may it not well be that one good man by his absence does better than the seeming goodness of these many men?”
THE RIVER
In the valley of Kadisha where the mighty river flows, two little streams met and spoke to one another.
One stream said, “How came you, my friend, and how was your path?”
And the other answered, “My path was most encumbered. The wheel of the mill was broken, and the master farmer who used to conduct me from my channel to his plants, is dead. I struggled down oozing with the filth of laziness in the sun. But how was your path, my brother?”
And the other stream answered and said, “Mine was a different path. I came down the hills among fragrant flowers and shy willows; men and women drank of me with silvery cups, and little children paddled their rosy feet at my edges, and there was laughter all about me, and there were sweet songs. What a pity that your path was not so happy.”
At that moment the river spoke with a loud voice and said, “Come in, come in, we are going to the sea. Come in, come in, speak no more. Be with me now. We are going to the sea. Come in, come in, for in me you shall forget you wanderings, sad or gay. Come in, come in. And you and I will forget all our ways when we reach the heart of our mother the sea.”
THE TWO HUNTERS
Upon a day in May, Joy and Sorrow met beside a lake. They greeted one another, and they sat down near the quiet waters and conversed.
Joy spoke of the beauty which is upon the earth, and the daily wonder of life in the forest and among the hills, and of the songs heard at dawn and eventide.
And sorrow spoke, and agreed with all that Joy had said; for Sorrow knew the magic of the hour and the beauty thereof. And Sorrow was eloquent when he spoke of may in the fields and among the hills.
And Joy and Sorrow talked long together, and they agreed upon all things of which they knew.
Now there passed by on the other side of the lake two hunters. And as they looked across the water one of them said, “I wonder who are those two persons?” And the other said, “Did you say two? I see only one.”
The first hunter said, “But there are two.” And the second said, “There is only one that I can see, and the reflection in the lake is only one.”
“Nay, there are two,” said the first hunter, “and the reflection in the still water is of two persons.”
But the second man said again, “Only one do I see.” And again the other said, “But I see two so plainly.”
And even unto this day one hunter says that the other sees double; while the other says, “My friend is somewhat blind.”
THE OTHER WANDERER
Once on a time I met another man of the roads. He too was a little mad, and thus spoke to me:
“I am a wanderer. Oftentimes it seems that I walk the earth among pygmies. And because my head is seventy cubits farther from the earth than theirs, it creates higher and freer thoughts.
“But in truth I walk not among men but above them, and all they can see of me is my footprints in their open fields.
“And often have I heard them discuss and disagree over the shape and size of my footprints. For there are some who say, ‘These are the tracks of a mammoth that roamed the earth in the far past.’ And others say, ‘Nay, these are places where meteors have fallen from the distant stars.’
“But you, my friend, you know full well that they are naught save the footprints of a wanderer.”
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