222 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



such scenes from time is one of the most blessed offices 

 of books, and it is a book that I remember now as I 

 think of that maiden smih'ng, a book ^ which says — 



And I could tell thee stories that would make thee 

 laugh at all thy trouble, and take thee to a land of which 

 thou hast never dreamed. Where the trees have ever 

 blossoms, and are noisy with the humming of intoxicated 

 bees. Where by day the suns are never burning, and by 

 night the moon-stones ooze with nectar in the rays of the 

 camphor-laden moon. Where the blue lakes are filled 

 with rows of silver swans, and where, on steps of lapis- 

 lazuli, the peacocks dance in agitation at the murmur of 

 the thunder in the hills. Where the lightning flashes 

 without harming, to light the way to women, stealing 

 in the darkness to meetings with their lovers, and the 

 rainbow hangs for ever like an opal on the dark blue 

 curtain of the clouds. Where, on the moonlit roofs of 

 crystal palaces, pairs of lovers laugh at the reflection of 

 each other's lovesick faces in goblets of red wine, breath- 

 ing as they drink air heavy with the fragrance of the 

 sandal, wafted from the mountain of the south. Where 

 they play and pelt each other with emeralds and rubies, 

 fetched at the churning of the ocean from the bottom 

 of the sea. Where rivers, whose sands are always golden, 

 flow slowly past long lines of silent cranes that hunt for 

 silver fishes in the rushes on their banks. Where men are 

 true, and maidens love for ever, and the lotus never 

 fades. . . . 



The great old books do the same a hundred times. 

 Take The Arabian Nights for example. They are full 

 of persons, places and events depicted with so strong an 

 appeal to our eyes and to that part of our intelligence 



1 The Heifer of the Daivti, by F W. Bain. 



