Atalapha, a Winged Brownie 
path. And the golden throat gave forth in silver 
notes a song of joy. Sang out Atalapha, as every 
sentient being sings when life and power and the 
joy of life have filled his cup brimful. 
And he whirled and wheeled, and shrilled his 
wildest strain, as though his joy were rounded out 
complete. 
How well he knew it lacked! 
Deep in his heart was a craving, a longing that 
he scarcely understood. His life, so full, so strong, 
was only half a life; and he raced in wanton speed, 
or plunged like a meteor to skim past sudden death 
for the very pride and glory of his power. And 
skirling he spieled the song that he may have used 
as a war song, but it had no hate in its vibrant 
notes; it was the outbursting now of a growing, 
starkening, urging, all-dominating wish for some 
one else. And he wheeled in ever-larger lightning 
curves; careering he met his summer mates, all 
racing like himself, all filled with the fires of youth 
and health, burning and lusty life, that had reached 
a culmination—all tingling as with some pungent, 
in-breathed essence, racing, strenuous, eager, 
hungry, hankering, craving for something that 
was not yet in their lives, seeking companionship, 
and yet when they met each other they wheeled 
apart, each by the other shunned, and circling, 
IQl 
