The Short Stories of John Buchan (Complete Collection). Buchan John

Phyllis, “here’s a merry meeting. I have seen more wonders to-night than I can quite comprehend. First, there comes Mr. Grey from nowhere in particular with a plaid on his shoulders; then a man with a scared face tumbles at our feet; then another comes to look for him; and now here you are, and you seem to have been righting. These hills of yours are worse than any fairyland, and, do you know, they are rather exhausting.”

      Meantime the Earl was solemnly mopping his brow and smiling on the assembly. “By George,” he muttered, and then his breath failed him and he could only chuckle. He looked at the tailor, and the sight of that care-ridden face again choked him with laughter.

      “I think we have all come across too many spirits to-night,” he said, “and they have been of rather substantial flesh and bone. At least so I found it. Have you learned much about the future, Miss Phyllis?”

      The girl looked shyly at her side. “Mr. Grey has been trying to teach me,” said she.

      The Earl laughed with great good-nature. “Midsummer madness,” he said. “The moon has touched us all.” And he glanced respectfully upward, where the White Huntress urged her course over the steeps of heaven.

       THE END

      THE MOON ENDURETH: TALES

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       The Company of the Marjolaine

       A Lucid Interval

       The Lemnian

       Space

       Streams of Water In The South

       The Grove of Ashtaroth

       The Riding of Ninemileburn

       The Kings of Orion

       The Rime of True Thomas

      FROM THE PENTLANDS LOOKING NORTH AND SOUTH

      Around my feet the clouds are drawn

       In the cold mystery of the dawn;

       No breezes cheer, no guests intrude

       My mossy, mist-clad solitude;

       When sudden down the steeps of sky

       Flames a long, lightening wind. On high

       The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far,

       In the low lands where cattle are,

       Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,—

       The Firth lies like a frozen stream,

       Reddening with morn. Tall spires of ships,

       Like thorns about the harbour's lips,

       Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep,

       Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep;

       While golden-grey, o'er kirk and wall,

       Day wakes in the ancient capital.

      Before me lie the lists of strife,

       The caravanserai of life,

       Whence from the gates the merchants go

       On the world's highways; to and fro

       Sail laiden ships; and in the street

       The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet,

       And in some corner by the fire

       Tells the old tale of heart's desire.

       Thither from alien seas and skies

       Comes the far-questioned merchandise:—

       Wrought silks of Broussa, Mocha's ware

       Brown-tinted, fragrant, and the rare

       Thin perfumes that the rose's breath

       Has sought, immortal in her death:

       Gold, gems, and spice, and haply still

       The red rough largess of the hill

       Which takes the sun and bears the vines

       Among the haunted Apennines.

       And he who treads the cobbled street

       To-day in the cold North may meet,

       Come month, come year, the dusky East,

       And share the Caliph's secret feast;

       Or in the toil of wind and sun

       Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone,

       Till o'er the steppe, athwart the sand

       Gleam the far gates of Samarkand.

       The ringing quay, the weathered face

       Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race

       The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore,

       Gales and hot suns the wide world o'er

       Grey North, red South, and burnished West

       The goals of the old tireless quest,

       Leap in the smoke, immortal, free,

       Where shines yon morning fringe of sea

       I turn, and lo! the moorlands high

       Lie still and frigid to the sky.

       The film of morn is silver-grey

       On the young heather, and away,

       Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill,

       Green glens are shining, stream and mill,

       Clachan and kirk and garden-ground,

       All silent in the hush profound

       Which haunts alone the hills' recess,

       The antique home of quietness.

       Nor to the folk can piper play

       The tune of "Hills and Far Away,"

       For they are with them. Morn can fire

       No peaks of weary heart's desire,

       Nor the red sunset flame behind

       Some ancient ridge of longing mind.

       For Arcady is here, around,

       In lilt of stream, in the clear sound

       Of lark and moorbird, in the bold

       Gay glamour of the evening gold,

       And so the wheel of seasons moves

       To kirk and market, to mild loves

       And modest hates, and still the sight

       Of brown kind faces, and when night

       Draws dark around with age and fear

       Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.—

       A land of peace where lost romance

       And ghostly shine of helm and lance

       Still dwell by castled scarp and lea,

       And the last