twins to dis heah worl' she nebah could tell! Dey
haint shell 'nuf fo' a hummin' bird's stomach, an' de pot
bilin' mad fo' 'm dis minute! Wha' yo' do, yo' black
niggahs? Come in heah! I make yo' sit still an' do nuffin'
an' yo' ol' mammy wu'kin' hussef to def! (Picks up basket
and drives children into the kitchen. Calls after them
beamingly) Wha' yo' reckon yo' ol' mammy cookin' in dat
ubbin fo' two little no 'count niggahs?

Children. (Within, scampering with delight) Cherry cobblah!
Cherry cobblah!

Zu. (Shutting the door) Don' want dat wind blowin' on my poun'
cake! It'll fall sho'!

(Virginia comes out at the front door of cottage, and
walks across the lawn to the shade of a bay tree where Poe
lies in a hammock as if asleep. A book on the ground. She
goes up softly and sits on a garden chair near him. He
opens his eyes)

Vir. O, I have waked you!

Poe. No, little houri. I was not asleep. I would not give one
breath of this sweet world to cold, unconscious sleep.

Vir. You are happy, cousin Edgar?

Poe. No, Virginia. This is all too delicious to be called
happiness. Too calm, like the stilling of a condor's wings
above sea-guarding peaks. He flies when he is happy. When
more than happy, it is enough to pause in the blue and
breathe wonders.

Vir. Is it wonderful here, Edgar? It has always seemed so to
me, but I have been afraid to tell anyone. It seems like a
great fairy house with God in it. Is it wonderful, cousin?

Poe. _You_ are wonderful.

Vir. O, no, no, no! I want to tell you too, Edgar, I have never
felt that I quite belong here. It is all too good for
me--so beautiful, and I am not beautiful.

Poe. (Rising) Why, my little aspiring Venus, let me tell you
something. I have wandered somewhat in life--at home and
over sea--and I have never looked upon a woman fairer than
yourself.

Vir. (Springing up in delight) O, I am so happy! You would not
flatter me! You are the soul of truth!

Poe. It is no flattery, little maid, as the world will soon
teach you.

Vir. I have nothing to do with that world, Edgar. My world is
the circuit of our mocking-bird's