for gaze, and the scent of the mignonette mingles with that of
clove pinks and blush roses, the fragrance of the heliotrope is, above
all, worthy incense to be offered upon his altar by the devout lover
of a god.

THE CRANES OF IBYCUS

"For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ."

Shakespeare.

Ibycus, the poet friend of Apollo, was a happy man as he journeyed on
foot through the country where the wild flowers grew thick and the
trees were laden with blossom towards the city of Corinth. His tuneful
voice sang snatches of song of his own making, and ever and again he
would try how his words and music sounded on his lyre. He was light of
heart, because ever had he thought of good, and not evil, and had
always sung only of great and noble deeds and of those things that
helped his fellow-men. And now he went to Corinth for the great
chariot-races, and for the great contest of musicians where every true
poet and musician in Greece was sure to be found.

It was the time of the return to earth of Adonis and of Proserpine,
and as he was reverently about to enter the sacred grove of Poseidon,
where the trees grew thick, and saw, crowning the height before him,
the glittering towers of Corinth, he heard, overhead, the harsh cries
of some other returned exiles. Ibycus smiled, as he looked up and
beheld the great flock of grey birds, with their long legs and strong,
outstretched wings, come back from their winter sojourn on the golden
sands of Egypt, to dance and beck and bow to each other by the marshes
of his homeland.

"Welcome back, little brothers!" he cried. "May you and I both meet
with naught but kindness from the people of this land!"

And when the cranes again harshly cried, as if in answer to his
greeting, the poet walked gaily on, further into the shadow of that
dark wood out of which he was never to pass as living man. Joyous, and
fearing no evil, he had been struck and cast to the ground by cruel
and murderous hands ere ever he knew that two robbers were hidden in a
narrow pass where the brushwood grew thick. With all his strength he
fought, but his arms were those of a musician and not of a warrior,
and very soon he was overpowered by those who assailed him. He cried
in vain to gods and to men for help, and in his final agony he heard
once more the harsh voices of the migratory birds and the rush of
their speeding wings. From the ground, where he ble