THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO The orchard lands of Long Ago!O drowsy winds, awake, and blowThe snowy blossoms back to me,And all the buds that used to be!Blow back along the grassy waysOf truant feet, and lift the hazeOf happy summer from the treesThat trail their tresses in the seasOf grain that float and overflowThe orchard lands of Long Ago! Blow back the melody that slipsIn lazy laughter from the... more...

CHAPTER I A SMALL DINNER BECOMES A PARTY “At Delaware’s broad stream, the view beginWhere jutting wharfs, food-freighted boats take in;Then, with the advancing sun direct your eyeWide opes the street with firm brick buildings high;Step, gently rising, over the pebbly way,And see the shops their tempting wares display.” —“Description of Philadelphia,” Breitnal, 1729. It was the first of... more...

THE BORDER A train had just come to a stop in the border station of Virballen. Half of the platform of that station is in Russia; half of it in East Prussia, the easternmost province of the German empire. All trains that pass from one country to the other stop there. There are customs men, soldiers, policemen, Prussian and Russian, who form a gauntlet all travelers must run. Here passports must be... more...

FELLOW TRAVELLERS WITH A BIRD, I. To attend to a living child is to be baffled in your humour, disappointed of your pathos, and set freshly free from all the pre-occupations.  You cannot anticipate him.  Blackbirds, overheard year by year, do not compose the same phrases; never two leitmotifs alike.  Not the tone, but the note alters.  So with the uncovenated ways of a child you keep no tryst. ... more...

Chapter One     New York, New York. A blissful spring morning beckoned, cloudless and blue and pure. I was driving my high-mileage Toyota down Seventh Avenue, headed for the location shoot that was supposed to wind up principal photography for my first feature film, Baby Love. It was about the pain and joy of adoption. I guess directing your first feature is something like giving birth to your first... more...

CHAPTER I The most remarkable thing about the boy was his eyes––that is, if any man with his spread of shoulder and masculine grace of flat muscled hips could be spoken of any longer as a boy, merely because his years happened to number twenty-four. They, however––the eyes––were gray; not a too light, off-color, gleaming gray, but more the tone of slate, deep when one chanced to find... more...

It was in October that Mary Chavah burned over the grass of her lawn, and the flame ran free across the place where in Spring her wild flower bed was made. Two weeks later she had there a great patch of purple violets. And all Old Trail Town, which takes account of its neighbours' flowers, of the migratory birds, of eclipses, and the like, came to see the wonder. "Mary Chavah!" said most... more...

There is a house on the declivity of a hill, on which the morning sun long lingers, and the eyes of those who gaze on this house sparkle with pleasure, for they augur from that glance that its inhabitants are happy. They are so; but their happiness is of a peculiar nature, for they have striven long and hard, before they at last acquired it. They have stood on the very threshold of death, though... more...

LITERATURE IN THE NEW CENTURY [This paper was read on September 24th, 1904, in the section of Belles-lettres of the International Congress of the Arts and Sciences, held at St. Louis.] There is no disguising the difficulty of any attempt to survey the whole field of literature as it is disclosed before us now at the opening of a new century; and there is no denying the danger of any effort to declare... more...

CHAPTER I THE MEETING ON THE LONG BRIDGE [Illustration: Our Stork] On the outskirts of the ancient town of Ribe, on the Danish north seacoast, a wooden bridge spanned the Nibs River when I was a boy—a frail structure, with twin arches like the humps of a dromedary, for boats to go under. Upon it my story begins. The bridge is long since gone. The grass-grown lane that knew our romping feet leads... more...