The Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood. Algernon Blackwood

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      CHAPTER XIV

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      O pure one, take thy seat in the barque of the Sun,

       And sail thou over the sky.

       Sail thou with the imperishable stars,

       Sail thou with the unwearied stars.

       Pyramid Texts, Dynasty VI.

      But Henry Rogers ran the whole two hundred yards to his lodgings in the carpenter's house. He ran as though the entire field of brilliant stars were at his heels. There was bewilderment, happiness, exhilaration in his blood. He had never felt so light-hearted in his life. He felt exactly fifteen years of age—and a half. The half was added to ensure a good, safe margin over the other two.

      But he was late for supper too—later than the children, for first he jotted down some notes upon the back of an envelope. He wrote them at high speed, meaning to correct them later, but the corrections were never made. Later, when he came to bed, the envelope had been tidied away by the careful housewife into the dustbin. And he was ashamed to ask for them. The carpenter's wife read English.

      'Pity,' he said to himself. 'I don't believe Minks could have done it better!'

      The energy that went to the making of those 'notes' would have run down different channels a few years ago. It would have gone into some ingenious patent. The patent, however, might equally have gone into the dustbin. There is an enormous quantity of misdirected energy pouring loose about the world!

      The notes had run something like this—

      O children, open your arms to me,

       Let your hair fall over my eyes;

       Let me sleep a moment—and then awake

       In your Gardens of sweet Surprise!

       For the grown-up folk

       Are a wearisome folk,

       And they laugh my fancies to scorn,

       My fun and my fancies to scorn.

      O children, open your hearts to me,

       And tell me your wonder-thoughts;

       Who lives in the palace inside your brain?

       Who plays in its outer courts?

       Who hides in the hours To-morrow holds?

       Who sleeps in your yesterdays?

       Who tiptoes along past the curtained folds

       Of the shadow that twilight lays?

      O children, open your eyes to me,

       And tell me your visions too;

       Who squeezes the sponge when the salt tears flow

       To dim their magical blue?

       Who draws up their blinds when the sun peeps in?

       Who fastens them down at night?

       Who brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids?

       Who trims their innocent light?

      Then, children, I beg you, sing low to me,

       And cover my eyes with your hands;

       O kiss me again till I sleep and dream

       That I'm lost in your fairylands;

       For the grown-up folk

       Are a troublesome folk,

       And the book of their childhood is torn,

       Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn!

      Supper at the Pension dissipated effectively the odd sense of enchantment to which he had fallen a victim, but it revived again with a sudden rush when Jimbo and his sister came up at half-past eight to say good-night. It began when the little fellow climbed up to plant a resounding kiss upon his lips, and it caught him fullest when Monkey's arms were round his neck, and he heard her whisper in his ear—

      'Sleep as tightly as you can, remember, and don't resist. We'll come later to find you.' Her brown eyes were straight in front of his own. Goodness, how they shone! Old Sirius and Aldebaran had certainly left a ray in each.

      'Hope you don't get any longer when you're asleep!' she added, giving him a sly dig in the ribs—then was gone before he could return it, or ask her what she meant by 'we'll find you later.'

      'And don't say a word to Mother,' СКАЧАТЬ