WHETHER we listen with aloof amusement to the dreamlike

mumbo jumbo of some red-eyed witch doctor of the Congo, or

read with cultivated rapture thin translations from the sonnets

of the mystic Lao-tse; now and again crack the hard nutshell of

an argument of Aquinas, or catch suddenly the shining meaning

of a bizarre Eskimo fairy tale: it will be always the one, shape-

shifting yet marvellously constant story that we find, together

with a challengingly persistent suggestion of more remaining

to be experienced than will ever be known or told.

This is a story of long ago.

The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer
WILL you look at us by the river!

Here it is again, light hoisting its terrible bells.

He – for there could be no doubt of his sex,
OLD DUDLEY folded into the chair he was gradually molding

WHEN he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm

BROTHER THOMAS,
You know how I always seem to be struggling, even when the situ-

ation doesn’t call for it?
 
FIRST ACT
SCENE
[Morning-room of Lord Windermere’s house in Carlton House Terrace.
Doors C. and R. Bureau with books and papers R. Sofa with small tea-
table L. Window opening on to terrace L. Table R.]
[LADY WINDERMERE is at table R., arranging roses in a blue bowl.]
[Enter PARKER.]
PARKER: Is your ladyship at home this afternoon?

Modern thought has realized considerable progress

THERE WERE ninety-seven New York advertising

men in the hotel,