The Irish standard., 1916-02-26

"You Shall Not Let In the River"
Gunner rrum rne coasr nad Drought IN
that day. He glanced over official COM
munications, blue prints and business
letters and stuffed them back into the
leather case. One fat letter, note
paper size, remained.
"McDougal," said Alan, "hush up
the campbell 'em it's nine o'clock"
McDougal arose and picking up
big stick strobe over towards the men,
The stick was so big that he had never
had to Use it. At the mere sight of it
the men desisted from camor, dance
and horse-play.
Alan drew the fat letter from its
envelope and for the second time read,
Dear Alan: AS you see this is from
New York. We came down yesterday.
All summer I have been watching for my
second self because I'm just about grown
Up now-outside, I mean-inside is different
somehow-and three days before we left
really caught her looking at me while
was sitting on the old stone bench
down by the pond.
jumped up and ran after her all the
way down Long Lane and up the Low
Road TO where the red COW broke her leg
that time and there lost her. I didn't
find her again and had to come away
without her and now l feel SO queer
sort of half-y. just like you.
Somehow I can't blame her. She didn't
want to leave the Hill in the gorgeous
month so shes just stayed behind. Do you
remember
10 {0 fhn A,,
Mount to the gods in myriad summer
pyres ...?
A few hours ago when was dning my
mile on the avenue I almost got run down
and Mam'selle gave me an awful scoltiine
for being SO absent-minded. 1t was true
word. 1 was just that-absent-minde
because my mind was off chasing that
other half. And then I came back and
| there l was on the avenue with people
staring at me more than they ever have
before. 1 suppose it was because I was
out of breath with chasing in my mind.
Good-by, Alan. GLEN.
Alan sat in the circle of Hight from
the hanging lamp and stared into the
darkness. From the river came ths
sound Of sucking mud. then a heavy
tread. A monster hippo Numbered
through the bushes in search of food.
On the other side Of the tree trunk the
Zanzibari was snoring. The fires were
burning out at the mems camp. Once
more the odor of their bodies hung in
the air.
Alan arose and dragged his chair to
the outer edge of the mango tree He
sat down and with hands locked and
elbows on knees gave himself up to
memory. He forgot the sounds and
smells of Africa, the black green of
overhanging leaves, the black shadows
of the swirling river, the black bronze
Of the men about him. For an hour he
tore himself away from the black
world to wander over the beloved hills
In New England where summer dies
In burst Of light.
Red Hill, crowned with mountain.
ash, called to his spirit as a torch in
the night to lost wanderer. The thir-
ty months that had passed since last
he saw it's budding promise were
swept away. He imagined those very
budding leaves at the end of their
course, the pale amber of the elms,
the deep note Of the steadfast frs, the
Haunting fire Of the brave naples.
Maple House arose before him, its
lawn carpeted with dry leaves. From
the leaves foated an incense, dusty,
pungent. The cool shadows of the
great. rambling house beckoned to
him. Here is peace, here is rest, they
seemed to cry. The memory of home
gripped him, held him and soothed
him. His head nodded and he slept
only to awake with start, for he had
dreamed that he had lost the way
back forever.