Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1912-09-22

have killed them; often have kept them to
walk up and down behind iron bars for my
diversion. But of all that has been written
it is one of your own race, an Englishman
who has put on paper what StlrS in your
blood when you see the springing step of the
royal man eater. Your Englishman, Blake,
is the only man who captured tiger and
chained him forever on printed page.
The Slav swayed over the table, thick
finger beating the verse cadences as he re-
cited:
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry
And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thine hearth
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
al, a Russian, wrote music for that he
said. II used to imagine heard the pad OF
the tigers paw in it. If Madame Orlovsky
will order coffee served in the opposite gal
1ery, shall play my music for you. There
is pianoforte yonder. Even if | have lost
my voice, l can yet play.
HAD Major Thwitney been there to OBJ
II serve, he would have envied the creator
of this tense moment. The Majors dinners
had been odd and interesting enough: their
atmosphere had been a mOrSel that this
Westchester colony had masticated as APP
preciatively as it had eaten the poniarded
guinea hens, each stabbed into resting upon
its individual plank fragment by one of the
Majors collection of rare daggerS. But
never had patio visitors migrated toward
moon and cigarettes in the south gallery eX-
perencing such thrill of expectancy. Not
one of the ten had ever slipped mocha while
a tiger worshiper played jungle motif to
them, with. somewhere nearby. Gagged beasts
at which they would be permitted to stare
before they went home.
@Whv read the Arabian Nights Rick"
Miss Waring asked her wicker ensconced
neighbor as he offered her white and gold
cup. "Why bother at all about stupid old
Sindbad who was myth, when we have
Mephisto who is an actually? All the same,
l feel half inclined to grab my skirts and run
off to my motor"
Between YOU and me, Constance con-
fessed Rawlins Richardson, I'D join you in
that down-the-hill sprint for a damaged
dime.
Orlovsky's mighty hands had the alter
nate power and gentleness with which the
ponderous piano virtuoso always surprises
YOU. He had woven into his composition
nant reek of jungle pools. His guests for the
most part sat spellbound, balancing china
in which untouched black liquid cooled.
Madame Orlovsky gripped the edge of
taboret and her eyes smoldered; the two
men servants stood rigid as if at military at
tention the chords crashed across the patio,
to be shivered and flung back again, weird
gallery echoes. Old Bruxton, who had
elected English % at Harvard, more years
ago than he cared to count, knew his Blake
he was about the only one save Orlovsky
who did. He measured the pianos throb-
bling with his coffee spoon. "What dread
hands and what dread feet!' he crooned.
Sand now for the last stanza,- the stanza
of contrasts, without which poem and music
would be rubbish. You know the verses, eh,
nv friend Bruxton?" The singer turned
suddenly from the keyboard to the grooming
old banker "Speak them before l play, |
beg of you"
Ordinarily a thing of this sort would have
been turned to instant account. To fix any
thing save the dollar mark upon the crusty
bachelor moneybags was worthy of young
WinsloW's best SALLY. As it was there came