A PRELUDE OF HEAVEN'S HARMONY 



AT midnight March came in like a lion bent on ven- 

 geance, announced by all the trumpets of the sky 

 and a roar in the tree tops. The first peep of day showed 

 whirling rings of mist taking the shapes of ghostly spirits 

 which seemed to moan : 



"The wind blows out of the gates of day, 

 The wind blows over the lonely of heart, 

 And the lonely of heart is withered away " 



The tones died in the distance as the dense fog swept on 

 before the blast as fierce and chill as if it had been the 

 breath of the Northland, from the far-away Hebrides 

 and the hills where the dream-maiden Fiona MacLeod 

 wove her verses. 



When it was light the gardener looked out on the 

 frowning clouds and turned a cold shoulder to weather 

 simulating pranks of the artistic temperament. Was this 

 spring masquerading for a day in blustering March? So 

 it is by the calendar, and experiences of old shall not 

 deceive us. Could we paint the weather god of this 

 season, what else should he be but a combination of Jove 

 10 



