Sanctuary: A Bird Masque

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sanctuary, by Percy MacKaye This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Sanctuary A Bird Masque Author: Percy MacKaye Commentator: Arvia MacKaye Release Date: March 8, 2018 [EBook #56704] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SANCTUARY *** Produced by Richard Tonsing, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) SANCTUARY A BIRD MASQUE “_Herkneth these blisful briddes how they singe; Ful is mine herte of revel and solas!_” CHAUCER [Illustration: ORNIS (_Miss Eleanor Wilson_) ] SANCTUARY _A Bird Masque_ BY PERCY MACKAYE _With a Prelude by_ ARVIA MACKAYE _Illustrated with Photographs in Color and Monotone by_ ARNOLD GENTHE NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1913, 1914, by_ PERCY MACKAYE _All rights reserved_ [Illustration: _February, 1914_] THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A TO ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES ‘WILD NATURE’S HUMAN SYMPATHIZER’ IN ADMIRATION OF HIS DAUNTLESS SERVICE TO THE BIRDS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ NOTE REGARDING PERFORMANCE AND PUBLIC READING _Requests for permission to perform or read publicly this Bird Masque having been received from a great many quarters, the following information is here given for those desiring such permission:_ _The Masque is copyrighted in the United States and countries of the Copyright Union, and all rights are reserved._ _The purpose of the Masque is to be of public use, so that all adequate presentations of it are welcome. To this end the special conditions of performance or public reading should in each case be communicated direct to the author, in care of the publisher._ _No performances may be given without such direct communication, and permission thus first obtained._ _As the publication of this text is designed to serve the definite cause for which it was written, performances must be, in some degree at least, for the benefit of Wild Bird Conservation._ _Music for the lyrics “The Hermit Thrush” and the three songs of Quercus has been composed by Frederick S. Converse, and is published by the H. W. Gray Company, 2 West 45th Street, New York._ _A bird bath, specially designed for use in bird sanctuaries and gardens, with plastic groupings of characters in the original cast of this Masque, has been executed by Mrs. Louis Saint-Gaudens, Cornish, New Hampshire, post office Windsor, Vermont._ _The four photographs in color, as well as those in black and white, which illustrate this volume were taken by Dr. Arnold Genthe of enactors in the Masque, as first performed by members of the Cornish Colony and the Meriden Bird Club at Meriden, New Hampshire, September 12, 1913._ FOREWORD This Masque was written for the dedication of the bird sanctuary of the Meriden Bird Club of Meriden, New Hampshire, where it was first performed on the night of September twelfth, 1913. The text was composed, the lyrics set to music, the masque rehearsed, costumed and acted, within the brief space of a month. Its production came about by a spontaneous and glad cooperation of artists, neighbors, lovers of nature, imbued with a deep feeling in common—concern for the welfare of wild birds. In this important concern its enactors were happily encouraged by the sympathetic presence of the President of the United States and the participation of his family. Swift and spontaneous as its production was, however, the masque in its reasons for being was not unpremeditated. It took its origin from two important sources, rarely, if ever, associated—nature study, and the art of the theatre. The union of these was its _raison d’etre_. However tentative its realization, it stands none the less as a pioneering suggestion of real moment to those two potent influences upon our national life. As such it has seemed worth while to present to the public, and to make clear the suggestion which it illustrates, however sketchily. From a recent volume by the writer on “The Civic Theatre, in Relation to the Redemption of Leisure,” I quote the following paragraphs upon “Nature Symbols,” as they apply directly to this subject: “The relation of the theatre’s art to the naturalist’s vocation is probably not obvious to the man on the street. That is because the commercial theatre relates itself to so few of the pursuits of science outside of Broadway interests. The civic theatre would do otherwise. “Aristophanes symbolized the birds for the purposes of Greek satire. The costuming of his play in Athens probably expressed no direct attribution to the science of ornithology. Yet its attribution to the Greek race’s intimate love of Nature was as spontaneous as the symbolizing of flowers in the capitals of their temple columns. The movement to-day for the conservation of our birds and their more intimate study might well take on significant, lovely forms of symbolic expression in pageants, festivals and the drama of the civic theatre. “By the same art, the fascinating designs, embossings, colorings, of insect forms could be symbolized in spectacles of astonishing beauty, motivated dramatically to the real and tremendous human relation which that ignored but pestiferous race bears to human society and the state; as witness the movement, involving millions in taxes, for exterminating the gypsy moth and the boll weevil. “Such implications for art may seem, at first, a far cry from actual possibilities of the theatre; yet thus may the civic theatre directly relate its activities not only to the enthusiasms of naturalists in the fields and woods, but to the inspiring studies of scholars in their laboratories: a cooperation which may soon stultify the popular notion that art and science are divorced in their special aims. The same relation of the theatre’s symbolic art to all the sciences—the discoveries of chemistry, the splendid imaginings of engineering—is implied in their common aim: the bringing of greater joy, beauty, understanding, to our fellow men and women, the people. “Science represents idea, art its expression; theatrical art its expression in forms best adapted to convened numbers of the people. The forms of popular art, therefore, are limited only by the ideas of man.” It is thus as an illustration of one of the multiform _genres_ of the civic theatre’s potential art that this little masque has its main significance. Before the actual establishment of the Civic Theatre among us, the opportunities of the working dramatist to make tangible contributions by his art to its repertory are, of course, very scant and at best groping and experimental. One such as the present may serve, however, to suggest certain immediate, practical possibilities. If, for instance, every bird sanctuary were to possess its stage and auditorium for bird masques—if every Natural History Museum had its outdoor theatre, equipped to set forth the multitudinous human meanings of its nature exhibits to the crowds that frequent its doors in their hours of leisure—if the directors of every Zoölogical Park were to provide for it a scenic arena, and seek the civic cooperation of the dramatic poet and theatrical expert, to vivify by their art the tremendous life stories of wild nature to the receptive minds of the human thousands convened to listen and behold—by such means, would not the disciples of nature study not simply adopt for their own ends a means of education and publicity a thousandfold more dynamic, imaginative and popular than any of the static means of exhibits, lectures and published volumes on which they now rely: would they not also thereby splendidly assist in enlarging the civic scope of the theatre’s art, still cramped, as for generations, within the walls of speculation and commercialism? These suggestions speak for themselves. If this Bird Masque shall help, in the slightest degree, to illustrate them, it will do its ephemeral service in the only permanent sanctuary of men as of birds—imagination. PERCY MACKAYE. CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, October, 1913. PERSONS OF THE MASQUE[1] _in the order of their appearance_ QUERCUS, _faun_ ALWYN, _poet_ SHY, _naturalist_ TACITA, _dryad_ ORNIS, _bird spirit_ STARK, _plume hunter_ PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME _Hunter Attendants of Stark_ _Many species of birds—in human form, garbed symbolically_ SCENE _The sylvan glade of a bird sanctuary._ Footnote 1: The complete programme of the original production of the masque, as first enacted at Meriden, New Hampshire, by members of the Cornish Colony and the Meriden Bird Club, is printed in the AFTERWORD of this volume. THE PRELUDE [Illustration: THE LITTLE GIRL FALLS INTO REVERIE ] THE PRELUDE _Wandering in the quiet of the bird sanctuary, a little girl hears the voice of a hermit thrush, and meditates this song_: THE SONG While walking through a lonely wood I heard a lovely voice: A voice so fresh and true and good It made my heart rejoice. It sounded like a Sunday bell Rung softly in a town, Or like a stream that in a dell Forever trickles down. It seemed to be a voice of love That always had loved me, So softly it rang out above, So wild and wanderingly. O Voice, were you a golden dove, Or just a plain gray bird? O Voice, you are my wandering love Lost, yet forever heard. _Passing on deeper into the wood, the little girl thinks dreamily of all wild birds and the wrongs done to them by their human brothers and sisters._ _Out of her reverie grows the Masque which follows._ THE MASQUE [Illustration] THE MASQUE I _Dawn._ _The woods are silent, save for bird pipings._ _In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine._ _Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark._ _On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole._ _In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath._ _Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head of_ QUERCUS, _a faun_. _Stealing forth_, QUERCUS _approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant_. _Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings._ QUERCUS Veery, veery!—vireo! Waxwing wild!—warbler wary! Ori-ori-oriole! Seek our sanctuary! Robin rath, Little tail-twitcher, Drink from my pitcher, Dip in my bath! Dew’s in my bath, Rain’s in my pitcher, Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie: Hither, highhole! Redpoll! Oriole! Vireo!—veery! [_From his pitcher plant_ QUERCUS _pours into the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls_:] Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees? A VOICE [_Outside._] A friend. QUERCUS A friend to what? THE VOICE To Song, and Song’s melodious silences. QUERCUS Still enter not. The race of wings reigns in this solitude. No foot may here intrude Without fair passport. Tell me first your name And cause of coming here. II QUERCUS. ALWYN. [A YOUNG MAN _enters, pausing in the path_.] THE MAN From hence even now a piping filled mine ear With quaintish memory: familiar, Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same Lulling to paleness the white morning star Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks, I know him, by those horns and merry winks. —Good morrow, Quercus, the faun! QUERCUS Now, by Lord Pan! The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.— Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master! You!—Can it really be? ALWYN It can, And _is_—by Pan, our ancient pastor! But you, slant shanks, what make _you_ here at dawn? QUERCUS Newfangleness! The classic gout Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine, But now they run new errands. [_Flourishing his staff._] Lo, the sign Of my new office! ALWYN New! What may that be? QUERCUS Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary: Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See, My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius! Old mythologic nature-faker, He’s out of date with his caduceus. Behold in me A modern science-tutored fairy And practical care-taker— Grand marshal of the martin-house! ALWYN [_Pointing at_ QUERCUS’ _staff_.] Of that? QUERCUS Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat And little pattern. [_Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole._] Yonder, you behold The real palace. Through those portals We lure the feathered broods to fold Their wings above the world of thievish mortals. ALWYN _We_—say you? Who are _we_? QUERCUS Myself and my lord master. ALWYN And what’s he? QUERCUS Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser. He is the fellow of all friendless things, Wild nature’s human sympathizer: In form a man, yet footed so with silence The deer mistake him for their brother; so Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings; An eye, that glows and twinks Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear That harks a mile hence The purring of a lynx! I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know Naught of him—but his love. ALWYN Not even his name? QUERCUS Yea, what men call him by; And he is like the same. Men call him Master Shy. ALWYN Ah, Shy, the naturalist. Why, he is my good crony. If he wist To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I. How do you serve him? QUERCUS I’m crew to his Jason! I multiply myself for rare adventures, And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter, Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason, Seed-storer, water-carrier, Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher, Man-chaser and mouse-catcher. ALWYN Nay, do you please in all? QUERCUS I carry to his call, And never yet have earned his censures For botch or shirk. ALWYN I prithee show me of your handiwork. What’s here—this little box With paddle wings? QUERCUS One of our weather-cocks. Look you, it swings: So when, in winter, the white tempest blows, Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows, With porch turned ever to the cosy side. In that cold time, my master Shy Brings more devices to provide Bird-comfort: Food-bells full of millet We place in covert nooks, and tie Our knitted suet bags on many a bough Of pine and larch. And I must plough Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet For little beaks to drink. ALWYN By Phœbus, now Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun, That wont of yore to dally On violet-scented lawn With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley! What modern change is here? What magic— QUERCUS Hush! [_With lowered voice, he looks around warily._] I am not always quite so modern! At times—at times—as when just now You heard me pipe below this bough— I slip my master’s traces, And slink by paths untrodden To lovelorn, lush Arcadian places, Where Philomel still lingers, Plaining her ancient pity, And there I fetch forth this With idling fingers, And, pouting on its lip my kiss, I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty. [_Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly._] Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear. [Illustration: “IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?” ] III SHY. QUERCUS. ALWYN. SHY [_Enters, carrying a nest-box._] A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear. [_He greets_ ALWYN.] Good morning, friend! How comes it _you_ are caught Walking so early? Poets, I had thought, Salute the sunrise only in their song. ALWYN [_Smiling._] Fie, then! You do us wrong: We rhyming slugabeds Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads, For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark. Poets are owls that elegize the lark. SHY And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales! Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary: Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see, To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales, And teach him craftily To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary. ALWYN [_Patting_ QUERCUS’ _shoulder_.] Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve My modern apprehensions: Tutor him, Hoof, head and limb, And let me humbly hearken. By your leave, God shall provide the dawn, And you the tutelage, and I—the faun. QUERCUS Waiting, my masters! ALWYN Give your pipe to me! QUERCUS [_Holding it behind him._] Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet. ALWYN Truth is more sweet than melody, And wisdom than melodious words. When you have learned to greet With their own mystic speech all living birds And minister to their necessity, This pipe shall be restored, and we will make Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake. [_In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from_ QUERCUS. SHY _then addresses_ QUERCUS.] SHY This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough Of that tall maple. Place it well, Like yonder one. QUERCUS Right, master. Now! SHY Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell! You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting. First tell me of your other questing— Those errands which I sent you yesterday. QUERCUS That cowbird, master,— SHY Did she lay Her egg? QUERCUS Indeed she did, the pest! She laid it in a redstart’s nest; But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it And cracked it cursory: Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks. SHY Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead? QUERCUS What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches? [_He nods shrewdly._] Wild huckleberries are growing at his head! That almost got _you_ in the fix: Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it, And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels. [_Grinning._] Eh, master, it’s _your_ shoe that pinches! SHY When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels Good to be wicked. But tell me of our forest planting ground: What shrubs and creepers have you found And marked, to make our shelter thicket? QUERCUS Why, sir, to give it Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet, Red osier, raspberry, wild rose, Black haw, and dangleberry. SHY A proper list! What trees—deciduous? QUERCUS Box-elder and bird cherry, White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn. ALWYN What make you thus? Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn? SHY Good poet, whist! No more mythology. Your faun is learning better. Truce! ALWYN Most humbly, my apology! SHY So, Quercus: and what evergreens? QUERCUS White spruce, Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine. SHY Good, fellow! Fine! In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch That squirrel there, before He makes his call at your new nest-box door. QUERCUS [_Skipping to the maple tree._] Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho! Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is! When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses! [_Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes._] [Illustration: ALWYN ] IV ALWYN. SHY. ALWYN Shy—honest friend, your hand once more! SHY Heartily! Welcome to this wood. ALWYN Do you recall how once we stood Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore— Dryads and poet’s dreams? SHY Yes, I recall I wondered at them all. ALWYN First—as to-day—you smiled Your incredulity of my quaint creed, Till soon, in further converse, we agreed In nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled. For both of us seek nature’s fellowship, The common language of all living things: I—more in music of the human lip, You—in the whirr of beaks and wings. So both—craving the beautiful— Still worship the same shrine and oracle: This temple, and its dryad—Tacita. SHY I will confess Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia I worship her Alone. ALWYN Because her moods are numberless I do the same. Between the heart of Man And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan, She stands and moves—divine interpreter, Translating with her shy and pagan dances Our world life and its trances. SHY She is, in truth, The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary. ALWYN [_Eagerly._] What if, through her as intermediary, And after thousand ages of uncouth Estrangement,—what, I say, if we Might find through her the key To comprehend the native speech of birds, And hold communion with them in our human words! Would not that be a modern consummation Nobler than fable? SHY Almost, I would have said, we might be able, If it were not for one who scorns this shrine And violates the beauty of creation, Marring all contemplative quietude. ALWYN Whom do you speak of? SHY One whom the red wine Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance. Close by this wood He plies a bold, sinister Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance But calculated orgies, he commits His venal murders, slits The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds, And leaves the nested broods Unhatched or starveling. So he girds His loins, and like the Patagonian Displays his feathered trophies: not a man Swayed by ecstatic moods, Nor even to equip A hardy sportsmanship; Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds, And when we challenge, smiling he responds: “Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.” ALWYN What is this desecrator’s name? SHY Stark, the plume-hunter. ALWYN Surely he dares not Track his defenseless game Here to this hallowed spot! SHY No place is holy to unhallowed minds: He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds. ALWYN Still I have faith That Tacita, in her serenity, Is mightier than he. SHY Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate And crushes like a flower. ALWYN Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith. So now, while nature muses in the thrush, Here let us sit this hour, And meditate On Tacita, till meditation shall create Its own shy image.—Hush! [_They sit upon a log and listen._] V TACITA. ALWYN. SHY. [_Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in the forest. Dimly from the background_ TACITA _appears. With steps of reverie, she approaches, and pauses before them_. ALWYN _looks up and, touching_ SHY’S _arm, speaks low_.] Tacita! It is she! SHY Speak to her—you. Alwyn Dryad, and spirit of serenity, Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew Upon our pathway, intervene For us with that still-undiscovered queen— Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs Spirit of birds and sister of our race, Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet, And by their moods arouse Her hidden grace To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen. [_To mysterious music_, TACITA _treads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her_. ALWYN _and_ SHY _watch her, rapt and expectant_. _Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth._] VI ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY. [_With a gesture of startled wildness_, TACITA _breaks abruptly from her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously from the other side there enters, swift but staggering_, ORNIS—_a maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters forward._] ORNIS Ee-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary! [_Swaying, she falls to the ground._ ALWYN _and_ SHY _spring toward her_.] ALWYN Help, Shy! She falls! SHY [_At_ ORNIS’ _side_.] Wing-struck! Here’s blood. ALWYN That shot? SHY The gun of Stark. [_Seeking to lift her._] Up, birdling! Here is Shy. ORNIS [_Droops, moaning._] O-rée-o! SHY Quick! Bring Quercus. ALWYN [_Hastening off._] In a jot. SHY [_Soothingly strokes_ ORNIS’ _arm and shoulder_.] So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so! ORNIS [_Moans dazedly._] Ir-re-o! P’tee! QUERCUS [_Reëntering with_ ALWYN.] Here, master! SHY [_Pointing._] Water!—There! ALWYN The bird bath! QUERCUS [_Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to_ SHY.] Coming! SHY Sprinkle. QUERCUS [_Sprinkling water upon_ ORNIS, _sings gaily_.] Ó-ree-o! When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair, And leaves both large and long, ’Tis merry walking in the fair forést To hear the small birds’ song! [ORNIS _revives_.] SHY [_Assisting her._] Now, gently! ALWYN [_Bending over her, calls low._] Ornis!—Sister! ORNIS _Who_ calls? Where Am I? ALWYN In sanctuary. Have no fear. ORNIS [_Looking from one to the other._] Ah, me! But what are these? SHY Your brothers, dear. ORNIS My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man. ALWYN Through Tacita you know us now; we can Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark. ORNIS [_Rising in glad wonder._] At last!— At last! ALWYN A thousand ages—they are past, And dumbness, like a dream, Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake, And each to each Can bid good-morning in our common speech. ORNIS How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking From callous slumber and old wrong? So sorrowfully long The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!— Was it a savage dream? Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher I showered His temple woods with ecstasy; When suddenly The earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fire Shattered my wing. I fell.— Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast In smear of lime; swift from below A tangling net was cast Where, panting upward, a black hell Of bloody mouths barked under me; And there beside them—oh, There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty, A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,” I cried, “O Sanctuary!” ALWYN And you woke With us, your brothers—healed. ORNIS [_With wonder._] Oh, have you heard What now I spoke? And can we answer truly, word for word? [_Curiously._] Alwyn! ALWYN You know my name? ORNIS [_Turning eagerly from one to the other._] Shy! SHY [_Smiling._] No mistake! ORNIS Quercus! QUERCUS [_Skipping with a bow._] Your birdship’s faun! ORNIS [_Laughing joyously._] Good-morning, brothers! ALWYN When have you known us? ORNIS Many an age and long! No syllable has bubbled in your song But I have blown it first from yonder trees: [_To_ SHY.] No brooding-place of yours—but _I_ was in the breeze; [_To_ QUERCUS.] And ever to your whistle I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle. [TACITA _appears remotely_.] O beautiful my brothers! O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn, How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others. [_A crashing resounds in the thicket_. TACITA _disappears_.] Who’s coming now? SHY Still others—our fellow man. ORNIS I hear a breaking bough. ALWYN Kind hearts and cruel are one clan. ORNIS Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress. Come, brothers, let us look: It may be one who needs our friendliness. Come with me! ALWYN [_Calling off scene._] Stand there! Stay beyond the brook. QUERCUS [_With excited gestures._] Back, ho! ORNIS [_Suddenly recoiling with a cry._] Ah, save me! [_She flies to their protection_. QUERCUS _also scampers back fearfully, and hides_.] VII STARK. ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY. [_Enter_ STARK, _in garb of a hunter. He wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his head is gorgeously plumed. Behind him, two panting dogs are held in leash by attendants._ STARK _rushes toward_ ORNIS, _passes her oblivious, and seizes up the fallen bird_.] STARK Bagged!—Hold off the dogs! [_The_ ATTENDANTS _withdraw with the hounds_.] ORNIS [_As_ STARK _grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain_.] Ee-ó-lo! STARK A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing. [Illustration: “Sir—Here is _No Hunting_” ] Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner. [_He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he sees_ ALWYN _and_ SHY, _and greets them gaily_.] Halloa! Fine hunting weather! SHY [_Quietly._] Sir, Here is _No Hunting_. STARK [_With a laugh._] Pipe that to the frogs! SHY This ground is sanctuary. STARK And what’s that? SHY A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail. STARK Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat. I only plume myself—to trim a hat. Besides, I shot outside your pale; And now [_Touching his pouch, he winks._] the game is bagged. SHY You bag the spangle And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place To preach or wrangle Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher. So I would only learn of you: what joy Urges you to destroy So gracious, fair And innocent a fellow-creature As yonder? [_He points at_ ORNIS.] STARK [_Looking._] Where? ALWYN Our sister, who stands there And dumbly pleads for all her race— And ours. STARK By Christ in Hades, My eyes see nothing but a brace Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies And show me—no one. ALWYN Look more near. Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now! ORNIS [_Drawing back in dread._] O-rée-o! STARK I am listening. ALWYN Did you hear No voice? STARK I heard a bird call from that bough. QUERCUS [_Peeping toward_ SHY _from the bushes_.] Have at him, master! SHY [_To_ STARK.] Did you spy That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back Into the bush? STARK I saw A stirring in that staghorn sumach, And caught a rabbit’s eye.— What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw! Good day to you! ALWYN Stay yet! Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands, Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands Of our shy sister: Can you see No timid form beside him? STARK Perfectly My eyes discern A man, who peers within the morning mist, And murmurs to the air, And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there. In short, I see a sentimentalist. I am not of that ilk. [_Calling_]—Ho, there!—Holá! Wait with my dogs: I’m coming. ALWYN Stay, and learn What we ourselves have only learned through quiet Listening. So long, in rampant haste, Your dizzy soul has chased The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac, That you have lost the track Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space! Put off that blood-emblazed regalia Gorgeous with death, And draw with me one meditative breath Here in the temple of cool Tacita. STARK [_Who has listened with half-amused curiosity._] Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend? ALWYN One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on. SHY Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend. [QUERCUS _goes out_.] STARK Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too? And may this wonder dawn on my horizon If I remain? ALWYN Remain—to meditate! STARK Why, now, you stir my fancies. In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do This hour. Come, I will wait And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be More lovely than my eyes did ever see! ALWYN With loveliness more deep than eyes discover. STARK So, ’tis a bargain, then? ALWYN Sit by me here; And if your musings cause no fear, You shall behold her in her secret dances. STARK By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her! [_He sits on the log beside_ ALWYN. ORNIS _still stands apart, under_ SHY’S _protection_. QUERCUS _enters, beckoning backward into the wood_.] [Illustration] VIII TACITA. ALWYN. ORNIS. STARK. (SHY. QUERCUS.) ALWYN Now, Tacita, shy pagan nymph, appear! [TACITA _enters from her shrine of greenery, and pauses before them_.] Spirit, unblind this man! Delusions blur Inward his sight. He is a murderer, Yet knows not he is such. Unseal The fountains of his vision, and reveal Yonder the sister spirit, whom so long His blind heart strove to wrong— Ornis: Reveal, and let him speak with her! [_Soft music sounds, various and elusive in its rhythmic themes_. TACITA _approaches_ STARK, _and weaves about him a dance of revelation, lulling, charming, luring him by the appeal of numberless wing-swayings and bird-dartings, for which the music suggests the song-notes. During her dance_, STARK _rises, bewildered, and is gradually lured and led by her toward_ ORNIS, _before whom—at the consummation of the dance—he stands, staring_.] STARK [_Rising, speaks to the music._] O twilight—holy dusk—dawn twitterings! How far, how dim and hollow You darkle over me: Wings, wings! swift wings, shy wings, eternal wings! Where shall I follow? Ah, joy—jubilant melody— And morning! Joy—I follow! I dream, and drink from your immortal springs! [TACITA _disappears_. STARK _beholds_ ORNIS.] IX STARK. ORNIS. (ALWYN. QUERCUS. SHY.) STARK What _are_ you? ORNIS [_Appealing with half-fearful affection._] Brother!—brother! STARK [_With sudden cry and gesture._] Ha, my net! The shy bird shall be captured ’live! [_From his shoulder he looses the net, and flings it over_ ORNIS, _seizing the meshes_.] Now, Joy, I hold you fast! ORNIS [_Struggling._] Ee-ó-lee-o! SHY [_Extricating her._] Not yet! ALWYN [_Seizing_ STARK.] Untamed, and still unshamed! Will you destroy The wings that raise you? Sister, speak to him! ORNIS My brothers—all of you! Oh, wage not war Because of me. I fear not. Stark, you dim The brightness of our union, greeting so Your sister. STARK [_Dropping his net._] Sister? ORNIS Hunt no more With lime and net: Your love shall hold me faster; For I am Ornis. STARK [_Fascinated._] Ornis! ORNIS Dear my master! Do you not know me? I am she Whom first, beneath the dark, ancestral tree, You rose upon your feet to hearken to. By me you grew To song and freedom. Round your olden feasts You watched my circling flights, whereby your priests Proclaimed their omens and their oracles; My cranes announced your victories, my storks Fed your hearth-fires, my silver-throated gulls And golden hawks Saved many your sea-towns from sore pestilence; And my sweet night bird tuned your poets’ shells To lull sad lovers in languorous asphodels; Yet all my influence Shone dimmer than my beauty: my bright plumes Lured you to squander them, till, in the fumes Of greed, your heart forgot to cherish me, And sold me unto death and slavery.— Yet, master, as you will: Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still! STARK [_With altered tone of yearning._] Yet—yet it seems I never heard your voice Till now; nor ever understood Till now; nor paused, as now in this still wood, To tremble and rejoice At greeting you, my sister. I am stunned, And wait to comprehend this wonder. ORNIS Ah, You never prayed before to Tacita! Your feet have shunned Her gracious paths, yet only she Can lead and show my brother Man to me. [Illustration: “Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!” ] STARK [_Glancing at his gun._] Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument Of murder here? What black intent Clouded my mind with blood? [_Flinging it from him._] Out of my hands!—My sister, can it be That still you soar above my sanguine flood Of passion, and forgive? Though yet I kill, Oh, is it true indeed—you love me still? ORNIS Ha, put me to the test! Show me the field that breeds your harvest pest Of chinch or weevil, Where all the blossoms wither with strange evil, Or where, in filmy tents, The hairy creepers gorge in regiments Your budding apple boughs; Show your ancestral elms Gaunt limbed with leprosy, which overwhelms Their green old age in death; Or those swift locust clouds, whose breath Blasts the ripe loveliness of Spring; Show these, and more Than these, and cry on _Ornis_! She shall bring— From hill and shore And plain—her wingèd flocks and warbling broods, And swinge away their deadly multitudes.— If _service_ be true love, I love you, brother. ALWYN [_Drawing near._] And for her sake, so _we_ will love each other. [_He takes_ STARK’S _right hand_.] SHY [_Taking his left._] A greenwood partnership! STARK [_Pressing their hands._] Thanks! SHY [_Whispering to the faun._] Quercus, run! QUERCUS I skip, I gambol, master. Ha! I have a tale to tell to Tacita! [_He leaps away._] ORNIS [_As_ STARK _tears off his headdress of plumes_.] And those—? STARK For these my heart shall build a fire Here at this shrine: [_He hangs the headdress on a tree._] And here, as on a pyre, I place them, with this pouch, which hides The victims of my blind desire. There, at sad cost, I let them tell my pain—the votive part Of one long lost, Who now has found himself in nature’s heart.— Ornis, my trail divides: There lie the ashes of the thing I was. Henceforth, I walk with you— [_Turning to_ ALWYN _and_ SHY.] and these. ALWYN A compact, then, we three: that when we go Forth from these gracious trees Into the world, we go as witnesses Before the men who make our country’s laws, And by our witness show In burning words The meaning of these sylvan mysteries: _Freedom and sanctuary for the birds!_ Say, is our compact sworn? STARK I swear. SHY And I. [_Enter_ QUERCUS _and_ TACITA.] X TACITA. QUERCUS. STARK. ORNIS. SHY. ALWYN. STARK [_To_ ORNIS.] Look, sister: friends are coming. Now lead us to their shrine close by. ORNIS Oh, first let all make joy of this our union! For now my glad heart, like a partridge drumming, Calls for my mates to join us, all together, In frolicsome communion. Ho, Quercus, Quercus, call them!—Tacita, Summon them with your fairy feet! QUERCUS [_Bounding forward._] Holá! ALWYN [_Taking from his pouch_ QUERCUS’ _pipe_.] Call loud and long! Here’s our old pipe, to carry a new song. [ALWYN _puts the pipe to his lips, while_ QUERCUS _sings to it, calling to the birds. At the end_, QUERCUS _begs in pantomime for the pipe which_ ALWYN, _smiling, restores to him_.] QUERCUS Come here, come here, you little comrades coy, From hill and swamp and heather: Make joy, make joy Together!— Tawny beak and scarlet vest, Slant wing and sleek feather, Bulging bill and cocking crest, Hither! Tumble out of nest, Topple out of windy weather Here, holá! With preenings quaint, Purple dyes and crimson paint, Here, holá, in merry state! Up from dew-grass, down from aerie, Tacita—Tacita Summons you to dedicate Here her sanctuary! [_While_ QUERCUS _calls, from all sides Birds of many species and colors—like_ ORNIS _human in form—gather, and peer from the edges of the scene. To these_ TACITA _now beckons, and by her gesture summons to her dance, while_ QUERCUS _plays joyously on his pipe_.] ORNIS Bird and faun and man and fairy, Gather now to sanctuary! [TACITA _first dances alone, then with_ QUERCUS; _then, inviting and leading them all in pied procession, she marshals all away into her woodland shrine_.] FINIS AFTERWORD In the original production of this masque, referred to in the _Foreword_, the sanctuary stage was devised by MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH in two planes—the natural and the supernatural, harmoniously blended. The natural plane, in the foreground, was a leaf-strewn plot of earth; the supernatural, in the background, was a constructed stage some eighteen inches higher, sloping slightly upward toward the back, covered with smooth canvas, practical for dancing, so painted as to suggest a weathered outcropping of rock, overgrown in places by moss and greensward. This constructed stage was divided from the foreground earth by the trunk of a felled maple tree, straight in line and inconspicuous in color. In front of this dividing line, SHY and ALWYN remained always in the natural plane; behind it, ORNIS and TACITA remained always in the supernatural. Their scenes together were enacted near or beside the fallen tree trunk. In the scene of his conversion, STARK was lured into the higher plane by TACITA; while QUERCUS alone among the characters skipped back and forth from one plane to the other. As audience, the non-participating spectators sat in dominoes of brown, flanked on either side by the bird-participants in their pied bird costumes. These latter watched the performance until, at the _finale_, they were summoned by QUERCUS upon the constructed stage. There, when all had been marshalled, entered the CARDINAL BIRD [enacted by MR. HERBERT ADAMS, the sculptor], accompanied by two small scarlet-tanager acolytes [boys], bearing great candles, to light a crimson cushion held by the Cardinal. On the cushion lay an open scroll. This scroll, itself a sheet of parchment-like paper from the original press of Benjamin Franklin, had been inscribed by MR. STEPHEN PARRISH with a _Sonnet-Epilogue_, [Illustration: Cardinal Bird and Hummingbird ] composed by the author of the masque and signed by all of its participants, with their real names opposite the species of birds they severally impersonated. Moving slowly forward to music till he stood before PRESIDENT and MRS. WILSON, where they sat near the centre of the first row of the audience, the CARDINAL BIRD, with simple dignity, read from the scroll this EPILOGUE Addressed to MRS. WOODROW WILSON: Lady, WHEREAS your gentle patronage And presence have to-night so favored us In this our ritual, that you have thus Lent to our earnest cause a double gage: One gracious daughter to make glad our stage And one to make its theme harmonious With song—whose sire now makes illustrious The larger theatre of our living age: Therefore, ere yet the privilege be spent Which grants our thoughts the spell of human words, We vow by you, here in this tranquil wood, Our loyal love to him—the President, Whose heart has heard the call of the wild birds, And sign ourselves Your Servants, with gratitude. Having thus presented the scroll, the CARDINAL BIRD with his ACOLYTES retired to the stage, where the final dance and procession of the bird-participants then took place. The Programme of the performance [omitting that part of the _Prelude_ already printed on pages xix and xx] was as follows: UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF MRS. WOODROW WILSON AND THE FOLLOWING COMMITTEE MRS. HERBERT ADAMS MRS. C. C. BEAMAN ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES KENYON COX PERCY MACKAYE MAXFIELD PARRISH CHARLES A. PLATT MRS. GEORGE RUBLEE LOUIS EVAN SHIPMAN JOSEPH LINDON SMITH MRS. AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS MEMBERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB JOIN WITH RESIDENTS OF CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, AND THEIR FRIENDS, TO PRESENT A MASQUE IN THE INTEREST OF AMERICAN WILD BIRD PROTECTION PRELUDE SONG “THE HERMIT THRUSH” SUNG BY MISS MARGARET WILSON THE SONG COMPOSED BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE TO WORDS BY ARVIA MACKAYE, WHO ENACTS THE PART OF THE LITTLE GIRL MERIDEN, NEW HAMPSHIRE: SEPTEMBER 12, 1913 SANCTUARY A BIRD MASQUE BY PERCY MACKAYE PERFORMED UNDER THE FOLLOWING DIRECTION STAGE PRODUCTION BY JOSEPH LINDON SMITH DANCING BY JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE ORIGINAL MUSIC BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE PROPERTIES BY WILLIAM HOWARD HART PROGRAMME DESIGN BY KENYON COX PERSONS IN THE MASQUE IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE QUERCUS FAUN JOSEPH LINDON SMITH ALWYN POET PERCY MACKAYE SHY NATURALIST ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES TACITA DRYAD JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE ORNIS BIRD SPIRIT ELEANOR WILSON STARK PLUME HUNTER WITTER BYNNER ATTENDANT LEONARD COX EPILOGUE THE CARDINAL BIRD HERBERT ADAMS FIRST ACOLYTE ROBIN MACKAYE SECOND ACOLYTE PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS BIRD PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME BLUEBIRD MRS. HERBERT ADAMS CARDINAL GROSBEAK MR. HERBERT ADAMS OWL MISS CHARLOTTE ARNOLD BALTIMORE ORIOLE MISS FRANCES ARNOLD OWL MISS GRACE ARNOLD RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MR. LEROY BARNETT GOLDFINCH MISS BIGELOW DOWNY WOODPECKER MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES DOWNY WOODPECKER MRS. EDSON BEMIS DOWNY WOODPECKER MR. EDSON BEMIS GOLDFINCH MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN BLUE JAY MISS LOUISE CONVERSE BLUE JAY MISS VIRGINIA CONVERSE KINGBIRD MRS. KENYON COX CROW MR. KENYON COX FLICKER MISS CAROLINE COX SCARLET TANAGER MR. ALLYN COX BLUEBIRD MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN HOUSE WREN MISS ELIZABETH EVARTS RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET MR. PRESCOTT EVARTS OWL MR. ELWIN FEY SCARLET TANAGER MR. CHARLES FULLER GOLDFINCH MRS. CONGER GOODYEAR RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET MISS LENA HARDY WOOD THRUSH MISS RUTH HALL EVENING GROSBEAK MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART HAWK MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD KINGBIRD MISS KING KINGBIRD MISS CLARA KING BLUEBIRD MRS. HERBERT LAKIN YELLOW WARBLER MISS ELEANOR LAKIN YELLOW WARBLER MISS HETTY LAKIN BLUEBIRD MISS BELLE LAVERACK SNOW BUNTING MRS. PERCY MACKAYE SWALLOW MISS HAZEL MACKAYE HUMMINGBIRD MISS ARVIA MACKAYE SCARLET TANAGER MASTER ROBIN MACKAYE GOLDFINCH MISS ALICE MCCLARY BLUEBIRD MISS ANNE PARRISH CARDINAL BIRD MR. STEPHEN PARRISH RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MISS MARIE PARKER HERMIT THRUSH MRS. MAXWELL PERKINS GOLDFINCH MR. ROGER PLATT SCARLET TANAGER MR. WILLIAM PLATT RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MISS EDNA RAPALLO GOLDFINCH MISS HADLEY RICHARDSON BLUE HERON MR. GEORGE RUBLEE LOVE BIRD MRS. LOUIS SAINT-GAUDENS SCARLET TANAGER MR. PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS WOOD THRUSH MISS SCUDDER BLUEBIRD MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN INDIGO BUNTING MASTER EVAN SHIPMAN WOODPECKER MISS FRANCES SMITH WOODPECKER MISS REBECCA SMITH BALTIMORE ORIOLE MISS CORDELIA TOWNSEND OFFICERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB PRESIDENT, DR. ERNEST L. HUSE VICE PRESIDENTS MRS. E. E. WHEELER MR. NEIL CRONIN PROF. FRANK M. HOWE PROF. CHESTER H. SEARS SECRETARY, MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN TREASURER, MR. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES GENERAL MANAGER, MISS MARY L. CHELLIS MASQUE COMMITTEE FOR THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB MR. ROBERT BARRETT MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN MISS MARY A. FREEMAN MR. ALBION E. LANG MR. CHARLES ALDEN TRACY MRS. E. E. WHEELER COSTUMES MRS. HERBERT ADAMS MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH PHOTOGRAPHS, DR. ARNOLD GENTHE BIRD-NOTES, MISS KATHERINE MINAHAN INVITATIONS, MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN AUTOMOBILES, MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD STAGING AND SEATS MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BY PERCY MACKAYE _The Canterbury Pilgrims. A Comedy._ _Jeanne d’Arc. A Tragedy._ _Sappho and Phaon. A Tragedy._ _Fenris the Wolf. A Tragedy._ _A Garland to Sylvia. A Dramatic Reverie._ _The Scarecrow. A Tragedy of the Ludicrous._ _Yankee Fantasies. Five One-Act Plays._ _Mater. An American Study in Comedy._ _Anti-Matrimony. A Satirical Comedy._ _To-morrow. A Play in Three Acts._ _Sanctuary. A Bird Masque._ _A Thousand Years Ago. A Romance of the Orient._ _Poems._ _Uriel, and Other Poems._ _Lincoln: A Centenary Ode._ _The Playhouse and the Play. Essays._ _The Civic Theatre. Essays._ _At all booksellers_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES 1. moved page 2 to end. 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 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