THE POET AND THE DANGER

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22435, 23 June 1938, Page 8 (Supplement)

THE POET AND THE DANGER

(By Helen Shaw)

Michael was playing in his garden tmder a tree which looked as if someone had strung threads of red beads over the - branches. Sometimes he picked the berries and Vtbrew them to a blackbird, and ’ sometimes he climbed into the sycamore tree so that- he could see Jenny who lived next door watching him between the long blue and white curtains of her bedroom. Jenny ,had yellow hair like Iceland poppies. “Come over to my garden and pick berries,” Michael called. “If I do, will you answer me a question?” Jenny asked. “Yes, come quickly; I’m a very good answerer- of all questions.” Jeriny left her room and ‘ her garden and ran to Michael’s , gate and opened it. He filled her hand with the red berries, but she let them spill on to the grass, for she was thinking of the question more than of them. “I want to know why the cap of snow on'the hill at the end of our road never loses its shape.” “Well, I am usually a good answerer, Jenny; but' 1 can’t tell you that. I know what to do, * though. We’ll ask Martin Moley, jthe painter who lives in the cottage the foot:of the hill.” -The sky was blue. -There were ao- leaves on the trees. It ..looked as if-someone had drawn wiggly patterns with a pencil against a sheet of blue Michael and Jenny laughed and ran and talked and skipped until they reached’ a square green cottage where at last chrysanthemum grew in a tub, a grey cat stalked along the green roof, and Martin Moley sat beside a table eating his lunch of eggs and dates. “Martin Moley,” said Michael, "we want to know why the cap of snow on the hill at the end of our road and at the back of your cottage never loses its shape.” First the painter gave them some of his dates and then milk, which he poured into green mugs with scarlet sailing boats lining the in-r Sides. Then he lit a pipe, stretched

his - legs, and told this story to Michael and Jenny: ; ; ?‘A very long time ago while men still wore their hair in ringlets, Michael, and women wore dresses of gold brocade, embroidered perhaps in tiny pink roses, Jenny, a poet and a dancer built a house on top of the hill. There was a gable at each end and a room where the poet wrote his poems and a room where the dancer in her long white frock danced to the musie of *a spinet. The birds and the clouds and the river which ran through the valley and the shadows of the gables-at night, gave them ideas for their poems and dances. They were very happy, and laughed and sang as you do when you play in your, gardens. They planted cherry trees and rose bushes. ..They .made a fountain and put fish into the pool. Swans swam there and peacocks .walked on the velvety lawn, dropping a blue feather or a green. People in the towns read the poet's, writing, but only the poet and the little old man who played the spinet saw the as she moved over the polished .floor of her rboni. In the towns and great cities men and women heard that a woman lived on top. of the hill who could use her arms more gracefully than the wings of birds, and her feet more lightly than the waves running up sand or the branches of willows blowing in the wind. ‘Send her to us,’ they cried to each other. ‘Why, should you alone see her? Our houses are dark. They are huddled together so that We cannot see beyond them to the waves or to the hills. - Let the dancer come to Our. Cities so that we may know how beautiful the outside world is.’ “When the poet heard that the people wanted her to go to them he packed the spinet and some clothes into a cart. The old player climbed on to the front. The dancer sat beside her things. A grey donkey drew the cart down the hill further and further away from the poet, but nearer every minute to the black tall buildings of the first city. “At night the peacocks screamed. The fountain splashed into its pool. Smoke from the poet’s fire of logs rose like a spiral .cloud against the sky; but the poet was lonely. The

peacock’s, feathers were still as blue, and the’ fish as bright as gold, but nothing seemed as white and soft as the long tarlatan frock of the dancer. “Then, when all the flowers were dead and the leaves lying shrivelled on the" lawn, the poet carried one frock, which had. been left behind, up: to the top of the hill. There he . spread ; it, out so that it looked ; like a white cap decorated with silver feathers in the moonlight. “He returned to his room under the gable, where he.went to bed sadly,, because ;he could write no more poetry. • “In the night snow fell, At first there were only a few .odd flakes, like the earliest blossoms that break through a cherry tree. • Then more and more fell, covering the garden and the gables -and the hill slopes. In the morning the poet could find no trace of: the white frock. 'Each day some of the snow, melted, leaving grassl and trees, and the house as they had been' before, but it remained on , top of--the hill always, never melting, never losing its whiteness nor its shape, which was of a long tarlatan dancing frock spread out into a circle so that it looked like a cap. When the moon shone the snow cap seemed to belong to fairies, for it had lines like silver feathers. “While -the dancer travelled from place to place in the little donkey cart, the , poet looked out of - his window, towards- the - snow;- and, imagining “the faint clear tinkle ■of the spinet, he again * Was able to. write his poems for. the people in the dark cities.” , "And did he see the dancer again, Martin: Moley?”' Michael asked; “I have answered your question. I shall leave you and .Jenny to think about that one,” said Martin, Michael anfl 1 Jenny looked 'at the hill. “I wonder if her frock still lies under the snow with all the tarlatan frills,; frozen hard,” Jenny wondered. “And I wonder what happened to the old man and the donkey,” Michael said. “Good-bye, Martin Moley.” On the roof the grey cat was still stalking softly when they walked away from the, painter’s cottage.