Read here the story of Evarra—man—
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

Because his God decreed one clot of blood
Should swerve one hair's-breadth from the pulse's
path,

And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone,
Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields,
Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees,
And mocking at the mist, until his God
Drove him to labour. Out of dung and horns
Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God,
Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,
And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,

He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds, And howled among the beasts: "Thus Gods are made,

And whoso makes them otherwise shall die." Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died.

Yet at the last he came to Paradise,

And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote; And marvelled, being very near to God,

What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law, Till God said mocking: "Mock not. These be thine."

Then cried Evarra: "I have sinned!"—"Not so.

If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods
Had rested in the mountain and the mine,
And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods,
And thy more wondrous law, Evarra. Thine,
Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine."

Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes, Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise.

This is the story of Evarra-man·
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE

WORKSHOPS

WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched

with a stick in the mould;

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was

joy to his mighty heart,

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons-and that

was a glorious gain

When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest

Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the

dove was preened to start,

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the

idle derrick swung,

While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree-and new as the new-cut tooth

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is

master of Art and Truth;

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the

shape of a surplice-peg,

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the

Club-room's green and gold,

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with

their pens in the mould

They scratch with their pens in the mould of their

graves, and the ink and the anguish start,

For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,

And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left

it long ago,

And if we could come when the sentry slept and

softly scurry through,

By the favour of God we might know as much-as our father Adam knew!