THE TRAIL TO PARADISE. 



E. J. MYERS. 



Fancy flies far from the crowded space 

 wherein we store trinket and trophy — 

 printed book and painted scene — that 

 weary and disquiet our souls. The homing 

 instinct tor solitude where peace abides sets 

 aquiver every fire of our being. 



It is a far, far cry from the busy marts, 

 the crowded thoroughfares, the swarming 

 hives of men, "the houses that stand up 

 'on end like coffins in an undertaker's 

 shop," to where the wind soughs through 

 -the virgin forests, where the wild violet 

 and rose bloom and the vines festoon the 

 trots, where the green thickets are filled 

 with singing birds, where through skies the 

 eagle soars with prey in talons for the 

 eaglets in eyrie, where the rabbit leaps 

 from the brush at the very feet of the way- 

 farer, where the bear tracks show that no 

 dew has yet fallen in them, and the scat- 

 tered earth around the caribou's hoofmark 

 yet holds the scent! 



Rod and gun, hunting knife and rifle, 

 moccasin and red seal boot, snowshoe and 

 ski. cedar paddle and steel pointed pole, 

 head and hoof, wing and hide, are baubles 

 on the walls of my den, as dead as the dust 

 on my books. 



My tale of work in well considered order 



Lies fair before me on the laden desk ; 

 But nothing in me speaks save dreams that border 



The grave with the grotesque. 



Whither trends that instinct? For the 

 walls fade like darkened scene as Fancy 

 roams from Labrador to Alaska, from 

 Nepigon to Tampa bay. Hark to the 

 sound! 'Tis the echo of the gun or the 

 iscream of the reel, the clack of the iron 

 on Patty Majaw's shingle. 



All and all, 'tis the song of steel; not 

 beard 



Among the jumbled heap 

 Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep 

 Nature's observatory — whence the dell 

 In flowery slopes; its river's crystal swell 

 j May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 

 j 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd where the deer's swift leap 

 ' Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. 



No silken thread unrolls from magic 

 sphere, as at Ariadne's command, to take 

 tis tli rough the maze of wearying fret and 

 fever. 



Xor Genii spread the enchanted Prayer 

 Rug, that rising and flying through the 

 t mpyrean, Aladdin-like, shall transport us, 

 hungering and craving, to the Land of 

 1 1 cart's Desire! 



In Roito's Mephisto, the last strains of 

 the voice die away, the final lingering ca- 

 dence sobs itself out on the first violin. 



the pulse-beating throbs of the harp faint 

 away, when through the silence, in which 

 the very breath is held for fear of sound, 

 one great note breaks the silence and holds 

 the throng beneath sublimer spell! It 

 utters joy and pleasure, it intones pathos, 

 sorrow and misery, it clangs in dis- 

 sonance, it peals in exultant discord, for 

 above all, it is the Voice of Steel! 



It is the indescribable clash of sabre 

 against sabre. It is the crack of the rifle, 

 the whimper of the bullet and the shriek 

 of the shell ! It is the wild transport that 

 arouses all the dormant bequests our fore- 

 gangers left, and makes us hark back and 

 double on our trail, flying from the en- 

 vironment of to-day to the savagery of the 

 past! 



On the thin, keen edge of the damas- 

 cened scimitar, as compensation for dash- 

 ing prowess, as the reward of uttermost 

 courage, the only prophet of Allah prom- 

 ised the faithful that they should pass as 

 on a highway of steel to Paradise. 



The tiny white ivoried disc that flashes 

 into sight the briefest interval, the line of 

 vision from Keen Desire down the damas- 

 cened steel to the fear-stricken flying 

 quarry, the fiery blaze, the hurtling mis- 

 sile mocking vision, a change of motion in 

 the moving something — its disappearance. 

 Then hope and disappointment, exulta- 

 tion and triumph, as victor looks on van- 

 quished. It is the Voice of Steel that sa- 

 lutes in Paradise! 



What recks the cost — what regrets for 

 stricken quarry? 'Tis but the trophy that 

 counts! Arrested headlong flight of azure- 

 defying fowl, gaunt grizzly terror of moun- 

 tain pass, striped panic of jungle thicket. 

 'Tis but too oft a single shot that sums a 

 compensation that mocks all effort to 

 lessen the reward. "Good hunting!" — the 

 Voice of Steel rings a chime in Paradise! 



The fang of barbed steel gaudily garbed 

 in sheen of sun, radiant feather and glit- 

 tering tinsel, impelled by daintiest wands — 

 so willowy that they droop and sway 

 'neath their own weight, so slender and 

 stately that they shame the grace of the 

 swan or the rhythmic swing of Aideen's 

 jewel-hooded serpent, so slim and frail 

 that they seem to deny their fitness and 

 vigorous stamina. 



Yet farther and farther flies the feath- 

 ered gaud on falling patch of foam in neu- 

 tralled meet of waters 'neath the falls, or 

 swimming in the long reach of pool, car- 

 ries deception and death to the warriors 



170 



