still smiling.
“My command? I told you to wait for me.”
“You told me something else,” laughed Arthur. “You spent all the morning instructing me for it, you know.”
“Oh!” said Helen. It was a broad and very much prolonged “Oh,” for a sudden light was dawning upon the girl; as it came her frown gave place to a look of delight.
“You have been writing me a poem!” she cried, eagerly.
“Yes,” said Arthur.
“Oh, you dear boy!” Helen laughed. “Then I do forgive you; but you ought to have told me, for I had to walk home all alone, and I've been worrying about you. I never once thought of the poem.”
“The muses call without warning,” laughed Arthur, “and one has to obey them, you know.”
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed the other. “And so you've been wandering around the woods all this time, making verses! And you've been waving your arms and talking to yourself, and doing all sorts of crazy things, I know!” Then as she saw Arthur flush, she went on: “I was sure of it! And you ran away so that I wouldn't see you! Oh, I wish I'd known; I'd have hunted you up and never come home until I'd found you.”
As was usual with Helen, her momentary vexation had gone like April rain, and all her seriousness had vanished with it. She forgot all about the last scene in the woods, and Arthur was once more the friend of her girlhood, whom she might take by the hand when she chose, and with whom she might be as free and happy as when she was alone with the flowers and the wind. It seemed as if Arthur too had vented all his pent up emotion, and returned to his natural cheerful self.
“Tell me,” she cried, “did you put in all the things I told you about?”
“I put all I could,” said Arthur. “That is a great deal to ask.”
“I only want it to be full of life,” laughed Helen. “That's all I care about; the man who wants to write springtime poetry for me must be wide awake!”
“Shall I read it to you?” asked Arthur, hesitatingly.
“Yes, of course,” said Helen. “And read it as if you meant it; if I like it I'll tell you so.”
“I wrote it for nothing but to please you” was the reply, and Arthur took a much bescrawled piece of paper from his pocket; the girl seated herself upon the piano stool again and gazed up at him as he rested his elbow upon the top of the piano and read his lines. There could not have been a situation in which the young poet would have read them with more complete happiness, and so it was a pleasure to watch him. And Helen's eyes kindled, and her cheeks flushed brightly as she listened, for she found that the verses had taken their imagery from her very lips.
In the May-time's golden glory
Ere the quivering sun was high,
I heard the Wind of Morning
Through the laughing meadows fly;
In his passion-song was throbbing
All the madness of the May,
And he whispered: Thou hast labored;
Thou art weary; come away!
Thou shalt drink a fiery potion
For thy prisoned spirit's pain;
Thou shalt taste the ancient rapture
That thy soul has sought in vain.
I will tell thee of a maiden,
One who has thy longing fanned—
Spirit of the Forest Music—
Thou shalt take her by the hand,
Lightly by her rosy fingers
Trembling with her keen delight,
And her flying steps shall lead thee
Out upon the mountain's height;
To a dance undreamed of mortal
To the Bacchanal of Spring—
Where in mystic joy united
Nature's bright-eyed creatures sing.
There the green things of the mountain,
Million-voiced, newly-born,
And the flowers of the valley
In their beauty's crimson morn;
There the winged winds of morning,
Spirits unresting, touched with fire,
And the streamlets, silver-throated,
They whose leaping steps ne'er tire!
Thou shalt see them, ever circling
Round about a rocky spring,
While the gaunt old forest-warriors
Madly their wide branches fling.
Thou shalt tread the whirling measure,
Bathe thee in its frenzied strife;
Thou shalt have a mighty memory
For thy spirit's after life.
Haste thee while thy heart is burning,
While thine eyes have strength to see;
Hark, behind yon blackening cloud-bank,
To the Storm-King's minstrelsy!
See, he stamps upon the mountains,
And he leaps the valleys high!
Now he smites his forest harp-strings,
And he sounds his thunder-cry:—
Waken, lift ye up, ye creatures,
Sing the song, each living thing!
Join ye in the mighty passion
Of the Symphony of Spring!
And so the young poet finished, his cheeks fairly on fire, and, as he gazed down at Helen, his hand trembling so that he could hardly hold the paper. One glance told him that she was pleased, for the girl's face was flushed like his own, and her eyes were sparkling with delight. Arthur's heart gave a great throb within him.
“You like it!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, Arthur, I do!” she cried. “Oh, how glorious you must have been!” And trembling with girlish delight, she took the paper from his hand and placed it in front of her on the music rack.
“Oh, I should
