. The Haverfordian, Vols. 31-33, 1909-12 . elevs, and by its gentle warmth, ourtongues are loosed and melancholy banished. He who cannot enjoy apipe or a plate of apples before a burning log has little left to him of ourcommon heritage from our nomadic ancestors. For fire has always been the friend of man. It was the first of ourconquests of peace, and now the social fire is coming to its own might the Sybil declare the fate of Rome from a pan of glowingcoals, or Moses see visions of the Infinite in the burning bush. For inthose days fire was indeed a gift from Heaven, and the most
. The Haverfordian, Vols. 31-33, 1909-12 . elevs, and by its gentle warmth, ourtongues are loosed and melancholy banished. He who cannot enjoy apipe or a plate of apples before a burning log has little left to him of ourcommon heritage from our nomadic ancestors. For fire has always been the friend of man. It was the first of ourconquests of peace, and now the social fire is coming to its own might the Sybil declare the fate of Rome from a pan of glowingcoals, or Moses see visions of the Infinite in the burning bush. For inthose days fire was indeed a gift from Heaven, and the most acceptablesacrifice was_an altar flame. /. H. P. A WAVE I sat by the seashore all alone;On the crest of the waves the moonlight slowly approached, and with rumbling roarBroke in weird-colored spray on the sandy shore,And quickly and quietly did landward creep,Then slowing, then stopping, then back in the deepThe rustling of pebbles as drawn by its speed,In a whirlpool of others did quickly recede. F. R. C. THE CLARET OF BACCARAL. UI, monsieur, said the old Count, and his frail fig-ure stiffened and his voice trembled a little as hespoke, It looks peaceful enough now, but I haveseen the time when the blood on this terrace wasred like wine, and when the smoke from the gun-powder and the burning fields was so thick that onecould not see the river. The scene was a beautiful one. The afternoonsunlight fell in golden slants across the terrace, bathing the weather-beaten stone in a mellow light, while from the gardens came the faintodor of the white roses. Chateau Baccaral was famous for its below was a tiny red-roofed hamlet, girt in by a curve of the Moselle,which wound like a silver ribbon through the poplar meadows. In thedistance a church bell was ringing. Indeed everything seemed peacefuland placid. It is very beautiful here now, said the Count, let us have ourtea outside. I want you to see the moon rise over the river. Retoucheda small bell that stood on the
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