Arnaux 
whelming, imperishable master-power, as long 
as the brave little heart and wings can beat. 
Home, home, sweet home! Never had 
mankind a stronger love of home than Arnaux. 
The trials and sorrows of the old pigeon-loft 
were forgotten in that all-dominating force of 
his nature. Not years of prison bars, not later 
loves, nor fear of death, could down its power ; 
and Arnaux, had the gift of song been his, 
must surely have sung as sings a hero in his 
highest joy, when sprang he from the ’lighting 
board, up-circling free, soaring, drawn by the 
only impulse that those glorious wings would 
honor, —up, up, in widening, heightening circles 
of ashy blue in the blue, flashing those many- 
lettered wings of white, till they seemed like jets 
of fire—up and on, driven by that home-love, 
faithful to his only home and to his faithless 
mate; closing his eyes, they say; closing his 
ears, they tell; shutting his mind,—we all be- 
lieve, —to nearer things, to two years of his life, 
to one half of his prime, but soaring in the 
blue, retiring, as a saint might do, into his inner 
self, giving himself up to that inmost guide. 
He was the captain of the ship, but the pilot, 
Se) 
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