organ,-- while a sensationunlike anything ever felt before takes me by the

throat... What witchcraft has he learned? what secret has he found -- this
scowling man of the road?... Oh! is there anybody else in the whole world

who can sing like that?... And the form of the singer flickers and dims;--
and the house, and the lawn, and all visible shapes of things tremble and

swim before me. Yet instinctively I fear that man;-- I almost hate him; and
I feel myself flushing with anger and shame because of his power to move me

thus...
"He made you cry," Robert compassionately observes, to my further

confusion,-- as the harper strides away, richer by a gift of sixpence taken
without thanks... "But I think he must be a gipsy. Gipsies are bad people

-- and they are wizards... Let us go back to the wood."
We climb again to the pines, and there squat down upon the sun-flecked

grass, and look over town and sea. But we do not play as before: the spell
of the wizard is strong upon us both... "Perhaps he is a goblin," I venture

at last, "or a fairy?" "No," says Robert,-- "only a gipsy. But that is
nearly as bad. They steal children, you know."...

"What shall we do if he comes up here?" I gasp, in sudden terror at the
lonesomeness of our situation.

"Oh, he wouldn't dare," answers Robert -- "not by daylight, you know."...
[Only yesterday, near the village of Takata, I noticed a flower which the

Japanese call by nearly the same name as we do: Himawari, "The
Sunward-turning;" -- and over the space of forty years there thrilled back

to me the voice of that wandering harper,--
As the Sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look that she turned when he rose.
Again I saw the sun-flecked shadows on that far Welsh hill; and Robert for

a moment again stood beside me, with his girl's face and his curls of gold.
We were looking for fairy-rings... But all that existed of the real Robert

must long ago have suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange...
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his

friend...]
HORAI

Blue vision of depth lost in height,-- sea and sky interblending through
luminous haze. The day is of spring, and the hour morning.

Only sky and sea,-- one azure enormity... In the fore, ripples are
catching a silvery light, and threads of foam are swirling. But a little

further off no motion is visible, nor anything save color: dim warm blue of
water widening away to melt into blue of air. Horizon there is none: only

distance soaring into space,-- infinite concavity hollowing before you, and
hugely arching above you,-- the color deepening with the height. But far in

the midway-blue there hangs a faint, faint vision of palace towers, with
high roofs horned and curved like moons,-- some shadowing of splendor

strange and old, illumined by a sunshine soft as memory.
...What I have thus been trying to describe is a kakemono,-- that is to

say, a Japanese painting on silk, suspended to the wall of my alcove;-- and
the name of it is Shinkiro, which signifies "Mirage." But the shapes of the

mirage are unmistakable. Those are the glimmering portals of Horai the
blest; and those are the moony roofs of the Palace of the Dragon-King;--

and the fashion of them (though limned by a Japanese brush of to-day) is
the fashion of things Chinese, twenty-one hundred years ago...

Thus much is told of the place in the Chinese books of that time:--
In Horai there is neither death nor pain; and there is no winter. The

flowers in that place never fade, and the fruits never fail; and if a man
taste of those fruits even but once, he can never again feel thirst or

hunger. In Horai grow the enchanted plants So-rin-shi, and Riku-go-aoi, and
Ban-kon-to, which heal all manner of sickness;-- and there grows also the

magical grass Yo-shin-shi, that quickens the dead; and the magical grass is
watered by a fairy water of which a single drink confers perpetual youth.

The people of Horai eat their rice out of very, very small bowls; but the
rice never diminishes within those bowls,-- however much of it be eaten,--

until the eater desires no more. And the people of Horai drink their wine
out of very, very small cups; but no man can empty one of those cups,--

however stoutly he may drink,-- until there comes upon him the pleasant
drowsiness of intoxication.

All this and more is told in the legends of the time of the Shin dynasty.
But that the people who wrote down those legends ever saw Horai, even in a

mirage, is not believable. For really there are no enchanted fruits which
leave the eater forever satisfied,-- nor any magical grass which revives

the dead,-- nor any fountain of fairy water,-- nor any bowls which never
lack rice,-- nor any cups which never lack wine. It is not true that sorrow

and death never enter Horai;-- neither is it true that there is not any
winter. The winter in Horai is cold;-- and winds then bite to the bone; and

the heaping of snow is monstrous on the roofs of the Dragon-King.
Nevertheless there are wonderful things in Horai; and the most wonderful

of all has not been mentioned by any Chinese writer. I mean the atmosphere
of Horai. It is an atmospherepeculiar to the place; and, because of it,

the sunshine in Horai is whiter than any other sunshine,-- a milky light
that never dazzles,-- astonishingly clear, but very soft. This atmosphere

is not of our human period: it is enormously old,-- so old that I feel
afraid when I try to think how old it is;-- and it is not a mixture of

nitrogen and oxygen. It is not made of air at all, but of ghost,-- the
substance of quintillions of quintillions of generations of souls blended

into one immense translucency,-- souls of people who thought in ways never
resembling our ways. Whatever mortal man inhales that atmosphere, he takes

into his blood the thrilling of these spirits; and they change the sense
within him,-- reshaping his notions of Space and Time,-- so that he can see

only as they used to see, and feel only as they used to feel, and think
only as they used to think. Soft as sleep are these changes of sense; and

Horai, discerned across them, might thus be described:--
-- Because in Horai there is no knowledge of great evil, the hearts of the

people never grow old. And, by reason of being always young in heart, the
people of Horai smile from birth until death -- except when the Gods send

sorrow among them; and faces then are veiled until the sorrow goes away.
All folk in Horai love and trust each other, as if all were members of a

single household;-- and the speech of the women is like birdsong, because
the hearts of them are light as the souls of birds;-- and the swaying of

the sleeves of the maidens at play seems a flutter of wide, soft wings. In
Horai nothing is hidden but grief, because there is no reason for shame;--

and nothing is locked away, because there could not be any theft;-- and by
night as well as by day all doors remain unbarred, because there is no

reason for fear. And because the people are fairies -- though mortal -- all
things in Horai, except the Palace of the Dragon-King, are small and quaint

and queer;-- and these fairy-folk do really eat their rice out of very,
very small bowls, and drink their wine out of very, very small cups...

-- Much of this seeming would be due to the inhalation of that ghostly
atmosphere -- but not all. For the spell wrought by the dead is only the

charm of an Ideal, the glamour of an ancient hope;-- and something of that
hope has found fulfillment in many hearts ,-- in the simple beauty of

unselfish lives,-- in the sweetness of Woman...
-- Evil winds from the West are blowing over Horai; and the magical

atmosphere, alas! is shrinking away before them. It lingers now in patches
only, and bands,-- like those long bright bands of cloud that train across

the landscapes of Japanese painters. Under these shreds of the elfish vapor
you still can find Horai -- but not everywhere... Remember that Horai is

also called Shinkiro, which signifies Mirage,-- the Vision of the
Intangible. And the Vision is fading,-- never again to appear save in

pictures and poems and dreams...
INSECT STUDIES

BUTTERFLIES
I

Would that I could hope for the luck of that Chinese scholar known to
Japanese literature as "Rosan"! For he was beloved by two spirit-maidens,

celestial sisters, who every ten days came to visit him and to tell him
stories about butterflies. Now there are marvelous Chinese stories about

butterflies -- ghostly stories; and I want to know them. But never shall I
be able to read Chinese, nor even Japanese; and the little Japanese poetry

that I manage, with exceeding difficulty, to translate, contains so many
allusions to Chinese stories of butterflies that I am tormented with the

torment of Tantalus... And, of course, no spirit-maidens will even deign to
visit so skeptical a person as myself.