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PAN IN LOVE
HERE was a garden. It was a superbly congenial
garden, but drenched with somber traditions. There
was a fairy in the garden, perched on the head of a
bronze idol and steadily peeringat a slippery, green frog
on a lily pad. The frog stared back with silly, blinking
A scornful sun sat mockingly upon the tired hills.
flinging his burning vanity across the indifferent skies.
The fairy was Pan, fiery tempestuous Pan! What
was he doing in the garden? The idol was silent as the
Sphinx. The jade pool whispered nothing. But there
was an answer in the face of Pan: in the tiny, wizeuned
face of Pan: in the little, glittering eyes. Pan was in love
with a Mortal! What could be more tragically romantic?
. Q . . . . 1 1 . Q Q f Q
The moon emptied a basket of silvery beams into the
lap of the garden. Pan was still there, brooding on the
shadowy idol. The frog was gone. A shadow slipped
into the garden and the eyes of the fairy loved. The
shadow was a Princess-a Princess with dark, slanting
eyes and hair like foamy sunbeams, clustered. She was
ecstasy of Youth, trembling in the haunting sweetness
like a reed.
She touched the idol. lt was enchanted. She laughed
in delight, teeth gleaming. She danced in delight, feet
gleaming. Pan, in glee, danced with her. Cunning Pan!
His tiny hands caressed her cheek-her cheek, that
glowed like a sun-kissed poppy. At last, she fell, ex-
hausted, into the sweet, wet grass. She dreamed of rain
that cooled her face: tiny, silvery raindrops. But it
wasn't rain. It was the kisses of Pan-the kisses and the
laughter of Pan.
. . . . . . . . f . . . .
A nightingale sings the story yet in the old garden. The
idol is still there, symbolical of the mysticism of centuries.
But Pan and the Princess are gone. Pan dwells on for-
ever in the forest and the Princess is-dead.