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Now as I have strayed a little in thinking of the subject of "The Star in The East" I find myself back again in the presence of the one who sung father's favorite song. I told mother she must get ready, and, in the fall, we would go back to the state of New York. I asked father to go with us, and tried to get him to say he would go.

In his great joy Vanemuine sang songs never before heard on the earth, and the listening nightingale caught their meaning, never to forget. When you hear the nightingale pour out its song in the dusk of evening hours, you hear an echo of the song the nightingale heard upon the Hill of Taara. Vanemuine sang of love and of the beautiful springtime.

It is true, he has lived in much handsomer style at the Orange court, lived there, indeed, amid plenty and pleasure by the way, we can sing a little song on that subject, for our son has seen well to the outlay, but the payment all fell to the lot of us at home.

"The woman," he went on, "must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spend your hour or two's walk from Château-Renaud to Amboise adding a verse to your love song." "Why not a new song all for herself!" replied La Mothe, the twinkle broadening to a laugh, "or had I better wait till I see her?

The silence of the wilderness enfolded lake and shore; yet presently it came to be a silence accentuated by near and distant sounds, faint, wild, lonely the low hum of falling water, the splash of tiny waves on the shore, the song of insects, and the dismal hoot of owls.

The man out of work who had wanted to know what Jesus would do in his place sat with one grimy hand on the back of the bench in front of him, with his mouth partly open, his great tragedy for the moment forgotten. The song, while it lasted, was food and work and warmth and union with his wife and babies once more.

And on many an after-day, and in many another place, the book of his life would reopen at this well-conned page, and he would see the dim light in the faint, flushed sky, and hear the song of the thrush swelling upwards strong and sweet, and remember his prayer and the peace that fell upon his soul.

The change in him evidently puzzled her. "You sing a new song lately," she said with deliberation. "Do you want me to think you are out of my power?" "Think what you please, and be hanged to you!" howled Mr. Walraven. "I am driven to the verge of madness among you! Mollie Dane and her disappearance, my wife and her cursed taunts, you and your infernal threats! Do your worst, the whole of you!

"I have no choice in the matter. The bird has flown " She spoke with a certain heavy languor. "You mean the bird of your voice? Oh, but that is quite impossible. One can hear it calling out of the leaves every time you speak." "I'm afraid you can't get him to do any more than call out of the leaves." "But but pardon me is it because you don't intend there should be any more song?

Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple, or complex, or 'ethical, or 'pathetic. The parts also, with the exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals of the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these respects Homer is our earliest and sufficient model.

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