The Marriage of the Puppets

I

PAPA JONAS lived on the ground floor of No. 12 Barrow Street. It was there that he had his workshop, with its long table and its two dusty windows which looked down on a garden, owned by the church next door and planted with geraniums and nasturtiums. At noon a shaft of sunlight entered the shop, whose walls were hung with little dolls made of wood and dressed in silk and velvet.

They were the actors and actresses of the puppet theatre of which Papa Jonas was the owner and manager. Once a week you could have seen them presenting some play of Aristophanes, or Shakespeare, in a stable near Ninth Avenue. And you would have been astonished at their touching and lifelike gestures. But between performances they were content to hang limp and motionless from the wall at No. 12 Barrow Street, or to sit stiffly and without speaking on the floor, while Papa Jonas changed the expression of Iago, or dressed Ophelia in the robes of the goddess Eirene.

Day after day, amid the odors of glue and new pine boards, Papa Jonas worked over these little creatures of wood, cloth, paper, and tinsel. There were any number of them; they filled the corners, they gazed from the walls with gay and mournful faces. Papa Jonas loved them all and kept adding to them with anxious joy. But he confessed that he had certain favorites. His heart went out to an old Jew on whom he had been working for half a year. And he ventured the opinion that this puppet was his masterpiece.

’His face is full of suffering and ignorance,’he said; ‘he almost seems to breathe.’

There was also a clown with a long, red nose, of whom Papa Jonas was very fond. He had named him Mr. Aristotle, because he believed that to be a good clown it was necessary to be something of a philosopher. But he did not expect him, for that reason, to be very wise. ‘To be wise,’ Papa Jonas used to say, ‘it is necessary to see a great deal. One must look about; then one gets to know more than other people. Do not expect wisdom of a puppet; he has his nail in the wall, and that is all there is to it.’

One reason why the puppet-master felt a special fondness for Mr. Aristotle, was that the little clown reminded him of a time when he was poor, when he had been obliged to give plays like ‘ The Adventures of Mr. Punch,’ or ‘ Jonah and the Whale.’ Papa Jonas liked to think back to those days of his youth, with their longing, their enthusiasm, and their sadness. ‘Do you remember how hungry we were?’ he used to ask Mr. Aristotle, and ‘Shall you ever forget the year we spent in Italy? The shiny blue sky, the cakes and wine? — Yes, I can see that you are thinking of it.’

Papa Jonas was no longer poor; he had enough for his needs, enough to allow him to present his plays with two assistants. Mrs. Holly, who lived with her daughter upstairs in the house on Barrow Street, recited the women’s parts in a sweet and husky voice; while the young poet, Christopher Lane, changed the scenes, clicked on the electric lights, and raised and lowered the curtain. Mr. Lane also helped to dress the puppets, looked to the joints and wires, and even made minor repairs in the cloth or the paper. He was a poet; that is to say, he wrote verses, which he was unable to sell. Still, this did not discourage him. He was happy because, as Papa Jonas said, he was hardlyawareof what was going on under his nose. His eyes were always on the future, which glowed with the brightest colors. It is not to-day, he thought, but to-morrow that is important. As he went to bed in his cold, bare room, he comforted himself with this reflection.

He was poor, but it, did not seem to him that he was any worse off for that reason. He longed to travel, but it was all of the mind; he simply wished to be somewhere else, because the sky looked so beautiful far away. The city with its gray streets, its windy shadows, its harsh, clear lights, was like a wall over which he gazed with longing at the rest of the world. When the sun went down across the river, leaving the sky yellow and green and violet, he thought: ‘That is the way the West is now.’ And he saw in imagination t he prairies, the mountains, and the desert, bathed in that ineffable glow.

It was this feeling that drew him to the puppets. They seemed to him like men and women of long ago, or far away; and the scenes which he set up with such care on the stage were also of places far away. He liked to imagine that the little dolls were really Hamlet, or Jonah with his whale; and he felt in their presence that serene sorrow which comes from a contemplation of the past.

il

Amy May Holly was six years old. She was stout and cheerful, and she lived with her mother on the top floor of the two-story house at No. 12 Barrow Street, directly over Papa Jonas, whose workshop was on ( lie floor below. Mrs. Holly was a newspaper woman: that is to say, she conducted a column called ‘Advice to Lovers,’ on an evening paper. She received the confidences of young men and women, and she replied to their anxiety with earnest and sensible proposals. But at home she was careless and happy-go-lucky; she was like a child. Amy May always insisted that she was older than her mother, whom she felt obliged to look after. ‘I don’t know what you’d do.’ she told her, more than once, ‘if you did n’t have me.’

‘Oh dear,’cried Mrs. Holly. And she wrung her stubby fingers in dismay.

In the afternoon, when her mother went down to the paper, Amy May stayed at home, and looked after the house. She fed Tibbie, the canary; she played with Jane Demonstration, the little white rabbit; and she trotted solemnly up and down with the carpetsweeper. Then she went to look at the geraniums in the bath-tub. It was a large, old-fashioned tub, with plenty of room at the farther end for a small box of geraniums perched on some sticks, like a lake-dwelling. Mrs. Holly liked to look at the flowers across the clear green water of her bath; and Amy May kept some little china dolls among the leaves, and made believe the flower-box was an island. She had a wooden boat, and while her mother scrubbed her cars and her back, she took her dolls sailing.

She arranged picnics from one end of the bath-tub to the other. She was capable, she was in earnest, and she knew exactly what was needed for every occasion. ‘Take your rubbers, children,’ she would say, ‘and some blocks to play with, in case it rains.’

‘They’re all girls,’ she told her mother, ‘like you and me. Maybe some day I’ll have a little boy doll.’ That was her way of asking for things.

Mrs. Holly sighed, because she had a few problems of her own. She was a widow; she felt that she was beginning to look older; and she was tired of giving advice to lovers. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘perhaps Papa Jonas will give you a little boy doll, if you ask him for it.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Amy May. She would have asked for it anyway, sooner or later, but she liked to talk it over with somebody first. ‘Maybe he’ll give me the nice one with the long red nose? His name is Mr. Aristotle, mother, and he ‘s the-little-girl-with the-real-hair’s brother. Her name is Princess Angelica. I like Angelica, mother, because she looks like me. I play we’re sisters, and we tell each other secrets. Do you know what she told me? Well, she told me’ — she thought for a moment, her face drawn up in a frown — ‘she told me’ — and leaning over to her mother, she whispered in her ear, ‘Bzbzbzbzbz.’

‘No,’ exclaimed Mrs. Holly. ‘Do you know what I think?’ And she whispered solemnly back, ‘Bzbzbzbz.’

After supper, while her mother washed the dishes, Amy May went to say good-night to the rabbit, Jane Demonstration. This tiny creature inhabited a sort of hutch, built by Christopher Lane out of a soap-box, and placed near the stove. After laying a small, cold, china doll beside her for company, Amy May covered all but the rabbit ‘s nose with a quilt made of cotton and silk. ‘Good-night,’ she said. ‘Hold the truth.’

As soon as she was gone, Jane Demonstration crept slyly out from beneath the covers, and getting as far as possible from the cold china doll, settled down on top of the quilt with voluptuous satisfaction.

Amy May Holly was a Christian Scientist. At the age of six she repeated from memory the lessons taught her by the laundress, Amelia Adams, who arrived each Monday morning to do the wash. Mrs. Holly never failed to he surprised at the stories that Amy May repeated with such pious joy. But it never occurred to her to deny them. Once or twice she asked, ' Do you really believe it?’

‘Of course,’ said Amy May. She believed it because the laundress had told her so.

’Then it’s good with me,’ said her mother. She was a skeptic, and her manner was a little rare; but she was polite, and she respected the opinions of others.

The child took over the language of the religion which charmed and consoled her. ‘There was a man,’ she declared, ‘who was pushed by a bee.’

‘Tst,’ said her mother. ‘Did it hurt him?'

‘No,’ replied Amy May, ‘it did n’t hurt him. He knew the truth, and he felt quite well.’

Mrs. Holly shook her head. ‘That’s grand,’ she declared. She wanted to know why the bee had pushed him.

‘It was an error,’ said Amy May. ‘He sat down on him.’

She went to bed each night with a rag-doll by the name of Ana belle Lee. Anabolic was ugly, and she had only one eye, but her face expressed a lively optimism. When Mrs. Holly had kissed her daughter’s cheeks, soft and cool as rose-leaves, she repeated a little prayer which she used to say as a child, and which she had never forgotten: —

To this Amy May added in a lowvoice and without a pause: ‘What is the scientific statement of being there isnolifenotr uthintellenceorsubst ancein - matterforGod is not matirilheis spichul.’ Then she repeated a few little prayers, which she improvised for the occasion: ‘God bless mother and Papa Jonas and Christopher Lane and make Anabelle Lee a good girl, amen.’

Mrs. Holly turned out the light, and went back to her work. She was making a dress for Agamemnon’s wife, who also played the parts of Lady Macbeth and the Queen of Denmark. For a while, as she sewed, she sang to herself under her breath; but presently the singing stopped, and she sat, looking dreamily before her, her hands idle in her lap. She hated cooking and sweeping, but she approached them with a sort of jaunty rush; on the other hand, sewing simply made her sleepy. One button was enough, she always hoped, to hold things up, what with safetypins and a bit of string. Poor Mary Holly — what a great vexation she must have been to her daughter, who was just as neat as her mother was untidy. In the end, it was Amy May who put. on her own buttons; and since she liked to sew, she even put a few on her mother’s things, here and there, wherever she thought they might be needed. She was willing and earnest, but she was not always exact, and her buttons, an inch too high, or a little too low, gave Mrs. Holly at times an appearance of improvisation, not unbecoming to her short and vigorous figure.

III

The next afternoon Amy May and Anabelle Lee went to call on Papa Jonas. It was a formal call, and for this reason Anabelle Lee was dressed i n her best frock. Held together by a safety-pin, it concealed with austerity the lines of her figure. These faults did not cause Anabelle Lee the least embarrassment. Hopeful and meek, she allowed herself to be held upside down by one foot, while her mother knocked on the door of the puppet shop.

‘Come in,’ cried Christopher.

Amy May advanced into the room, and made a little bow. ‘How do you do, Mr. Lane,’ she said; ‘is Papa Jonas in?’

Christopher had played with Amy May before, and he knew what w-as expected of him.

‘How do you do, Miss Holly,’ he said. ‘Papa Jonas is out. But he’ll be in directly. Won’t, you take a seat? Here is an elegant seat.’ And he pulled a little soap-box out from under the work-table.

Amy May sat down, and arranged her skirts. From the top of the soapbox, the room seemed very high to Amy May, very large, and shadowy, and still. The worn trousers of Mr. Lane, with baggy knees, rose past her serious eyes like the legs of a god.

The poet was preparing for the production of Don Quixote. Surrounded by shavings which gave forth a sweet and aromatic odor, he was putting the finishing touches to a sword with which the Knight of La Mancha hoped to destroy the heathen Malambrino. Amy May sat at his feet, with the patient Anabelle Lee in her lap, and gazed up at him with longing and respect.

‘Well, how are you?’ she said, to begin with. ‘Have you made any new accomplishments in your work?’

‘Yes indeed,’ replied Christopher.

He swung the little sword through the air, in order to enjoy its terrifying appearance. ‘Heu,’he exclaimed. And with a superb pass, he plunged the wooden point into the cotton waistcoat of the King of Denmark, who hung on the wall.

Amy May laughed, shyly and merrily. ‘You do the funniest things,’ she said: ‘you’re the humorest person.’

Then, all at once becoming grave, she held out Anabelle Lee for him to look at. ‘Do you like the dress?’ she asked. ‘Mother made it. She made it out of a ribbon, and my panties. I think it’s beautiful.’

Christopher agreed that it was a handsome dress. But that was not enough for Amy May. She has nicer dresses,’ she said. This was not true; but she wished to spare Anabelle’s feelings. She explained that they had come to see Papa Jonas.

‘We came,’she declared, ‘to ask him for a favor.’

‘Maybe it’s something I could do,’ suggested Christopher.

Amy May shook her head. ‘It’s a serious favor,’ she said; ‘I think we ‘d better wait, if you don ‘t mind.

‘Not at all,’ said Christopher; ‘make yourself at home.’ He turned back to his work again. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ he added.

Left to her own devices, Amy May looked thoughtfully down at her feet, small, and round in front, and huddled together. Then she bent her head to bring her ear close to Anabelle s painted mouth. ‘Well,’ she said in a whisper, ‘you’ll have to wait till you get upstairs.’

She turned back to the poet again. ‘Do you think people ever get lonesome sometimes?’ she asked.

Christopher looked at her with surprise. ‘Why, of course,’ he said, ‘ people often get lonesome. But you re not lonesome, Amy May ?'

‘No, not me,’ said Amy May; ‘it ‘s Anabelle Lee. She gets lonesome and lonely.'

‘Now,’ said Christopher, ‘that’s a shame.’

Amy May continued with a frown: ‘ Do you think Papa Jonas would give me a doll for Anabelle Lee to play w ith, if I asked him? because mother thought maybe, if I asked him, he would.’

Mr. Lane thought it very likely, but he wondered just what doll would do. There was Angelica, of course, and Ophelia —

But Amy May wanted a boy doll.

‘A boy doll!’ exclaimed Christopher. ‘Whatever do you want a boy doll for, Amy May? ‘

‘For Anabelle Lee,’ said Amy May.

She explained that Anabelle Lee wanted to be married. Both Amy May and her daughter liked to play house: and they desired a man. They needed a husband, a doctor, and a grocer, but they were willing to economize: one man could be all three, with a little imagination.

Christopher, however, was shocked.

‘A doctor?’ he exclaimed with surprise: ‘Amy May don’t you cure your child with love any more?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Amy May. ‘But this is just a game. She likes to have the doctor go thump on her stummick. That’s the way we play. She’s only a doll,’ she added, ‘and she doesn’t know any better.’

But his criticism had touched and troubled her, and she added thoughtfully, as if trying to settle things with herself, ‘well, it’s only playing, anyhow.’

In the cool and dusty light of late afternoon, it seemed to the young poet as if Anabelle Lee’s one bright eye were gazing up at him with a strangely earnest expression. She seemed to be trying to tell him something: perhaps that she was lonesome and lonely. He thought he heard a voice, elfin, faint, and harsh, dry as the click of peas: —

‘Women have need of love, Christopher Lane, even though they happen to be made of rags, and have only one eye. What a shame! But, after all, what is more natural? Such women sometimes receive from the hands of Lachesis husbands they do not deserve and cannot satisfy. It is to accidents of this character that the Stoic adjusts himself by bowing his will to the will of the immortal gods.'

But that was hardly the way Anabelle Lee might have been expected to talk. Christopher Lane turned around with a start. There, at his elbow, was Mr. Aristotle, hanging from a nail in the wall. And it seemed to the young man that Mr. Aristotle was gazing at him with a frightened and melancholy smile.

‘It’s only playing,’ said Amy May; ‘don’t you think it’s all right if it’s only playing?’

‘Yes,’ replied Christopher absently, ‘yes — Well, you see,’ he said to Mr. Aristotle, ‘it’s only playing.’

But he thought that Mr. Aristotle shook his head; and that his wooden face, with its great nose, was turned upon Anabelle Lee with a look of horror.

A few moments later Papa Jonas himself entered the shop. He carried in his hands a can of paint and a faded flower given him by a child on the street. When he learned that Amy May wanted a boy doll for Anabelle Lee to play with, he advanced the opinion that Anabelle Lee ought to be satisfied with the company of an agreeable young rabbit, like Jane Demonstration.

‘But, Papa Jonas,’ said Amy May, ‘Jane Demonstration is only very, very little yet, and mother won’t even let me take her out of her box. Can’t I have a boy doll, Papa Jonas, can’t I please, for Anabelle Lee to play with?’

Christopher explained that the rag doll wished to be married.

‘There’s no doubt about it,’he said gravely; ‘you can see it in her eye.’

‘She’s so lonesome,’ said Amy May; ‘she cries all the time.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Don’t you, Anabelle Lee, darling?’

Anabelle Lee did not deny it.

Papa Jonas looked soberly down at the little brown head bent so anxiously above its darling. And as he stood there, this grave old man felt a sudden pang of envy and pity for Anabelle Lee. It would be so grand, he thought, to be made of rags, and to be loved. But love goes by, after a while, and then there is only a little figure left with drooping arms and one lonely eye — or an old man with his dolls.

He thought to himself: ‘Yet love itself does not. change; it finds new cheeks to kiss. It follows youth, as the birds follow the spring. Their songs pass above the cotton-fields and sound again in our orchards, among the daisies and the apple-blossoms. Then in the autumn they rise swiftly and quietly from the thinning trees, and fly away to build their nests in branches still murmuring with bees. Others hear their songs, while winter sleeps in our fields.

‘Love is man’s soul: it does not grow like his hopes, it. does not break like his heart.’

' Please, Papa Jonas,’ said Amy May, ‘can I have Mr. Aristotle?’

Papa Jonas gave a start, and Christopher let out a low whistle.

‘So you wish, Amy May,’ said Papa Jonas, ‘to arrange a marriage between Anabelle Lee and Mr. Aristotle? Dear me — I must think it over a little.’

Giving his assistant an anxious wink, he said to him, ‘Do you believe they would be happy together, Christopher Lane?’

‘Ak,’ he thought, ‘really, just when I am so fond of him — ‘

The poet looked at the little clown, hanging disconsolately on the wall. He remembered that Mr. Aristotle was one of his master’s favorite dolls; and he shook his head gloomily. ‘No,’ he said firmly; ‘it would be an unhappy marriage. Why, for one thing, he would simply pinch her black and blue.’

At these words Amy May gave a cry. ‘Oh,’she exclaimed. And clutching Anabelle Lee to her bosom with a gesture at once defiant and comforting, she added, ‘I wouldn’t let him — never.’

‘There, now,’ said Papa Jonas in wheedling tones, ‘did you hear what my assistant said, Amy May? As a matter of fact, it is my opinion also. Let me give you, instead, this little figure of Hamlet. I have another like it, and besides, I am sure he would make an excellent husband for Anabelle Lee, since he has a good deal to say, but all quite gentle and sad. Or look — here is Romeo, Amy May — would you like Romeo? Or Prince Giglio — yes, there’s a beauty for you — but not Mr. Aristotle, my child, no, not Mr. Aristotle.’

However, Anabelle Lee’s heart was set on Mr. Aristotle, and nothing else would do; so in the end Papa Jonas was obliged to give in. ‘Very well, then,’ he said with a deep sigh, ‘you shall have Mr. Aristotle. Perhaps it is all for the best.’

Turning to his assistant, he exclaimed, ‘Christopher, we must give our little friend a new suit. This clown’s dress is hardly the proper habit for a bridegroom. Come, let us see what we can find in the closet.’

Amy May rose to her feet, still holding Anabelle Lee tightly to her chest. ‘There, there,’she murmured, ‘it’s all right now — don’t cry — ‘

Anabelle Lee was not crying. She remained silent and absorbed. And it seemed to Christopher that her eye, made out of a shoe button, shone with agreeable thoughts.

IV

‘Come,’ said Sancho Panza, who had lately returned to the workshop, to Air. Aristotle, ‘what is this I hear about you? That you are to be married? It seems to me extraordinary, to say the least. Xcxer put new wine in old bottles, is a good thing to remember. Yes, now what have you got to say for yourself? Just tell us that.’

Air. Aristotle gazed around him with a tolerant air. ‘Really,’ he remarked languidly, ‘suppose, as you say, I am to be married? Certainly there is nothing astonishing in that, to my way of thinking. It is simply a new experience for me, that, is all; I found that I was getting a little dull, and I thought — Well, you know that for an artist like me there is nothing so necessary as experience. I am simply stepping aside for a moment or two from my career on the stage, to see what it is like to be — When I return, my art will be all the richer.'

These words did not convince the little squire, who shook his head doubtfully. ‘That’s all very well,’ he remarked; ‘but don’t forget this, my friend—I also have been married; I know a thing or two; and while I could easily understand a flirtation, or exen a love affair — quietly, you understand, with no one the wiser—But to be married—well, really — and to such a thin woman with only one eye — ‘

Mr. Aristotle broke in at. this point in an angry xoice: ‘Please remember that you are speaking of my intended.’

And as Sancho Panza began to apologize, he added more gently: —

‘No matter, there is no harm done. I realize that she is not. exactly a beauty: but her heart is of gold: and she loves me. You do not know what it means to be loved by a good woman. Let me tell you, sometimes I am a little afraid — such virtue, such modesty. After all, I am just a rough fellow; what if I prove a little too rough for those exquisite feelings? Yes, it is a serious matter, my friend; it is a heavy responsibility.’

With that he sighed deeply.

Sancho Panza also sighed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘the love of a good woman. Still,’ he added, more brightly, ‘what is this I hear about her wealth? l am told that you are doing very well for yourself. Soft chairs to sit on — new suits to wear — ‘ As he spoke, he glanced enviously at Mr. Aristotle out of his bright black eyes.

Mr. Aristotle made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Although she is not exactly wealthy,’ he said, ‘I believe that she is very well off. I expect to spend a few months in comfort, sitting on cushions; and I shall do a little thinking. Then, when I return, I shall be ready to play the most important roles. I may even,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘start a little theatre of my own. Perhaps you would be willing to consider a position — ‘

‘Hm,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘hm — Now, really, this is very interesting. Yes, I should say — Well, the devil, perhaps I could play the part of a king, or an carl, eh?’

Mr. Aristotle waved his hand grandly. ‘We will think about it,’ he declared. And he turned to Mr. Aloses, who had said nothing up to this point. ‘How about you, my friend?’ he asked.

But Mr. Moses shook his head and sighed. ‘ I am glad to sec that you have changed your mind,’ he remarked,

‘ although I had hoped — ‘

‘ I have not changed my mind,’ said Mr. Aristotle hastily; ‘I am simply saying what I have thought all along. As a matter of fact, one gets a little stiff hanging here on the wall; it was quite another thing when I played the part of Jonah and the Whale. But now I feel that it is time to look at life from other points of view. That is the advice I would give to any artist.’

And he frowned earnestly.

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, on a near-by nail, ventured to disagree with him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I do not agree with you. Avoid women, Mr. Aristotle; they will poison your mind. Shut your ears to t hem; and you will save yourself a great deal of trouble.’

‘That may be,’ said Mr. Aristotle; ‘but after all, you must allow me to lead my own life. I am obliged to Your Highness, but I know what is best for me. I am not like you, gloomy and poetical; I am an adventurer, I lead a life of gayety, and passion. That is the proper life for such a man as myself. Then at the end, if I am wrong, I shall simply throw myself out of the window. That is bet ter than being thrown on the rubbish-heap, or being made over into something else — a gravedigger, or some minor character like that.’

‘In that case,’ said Mr. Aloses slowly, ‘Aliss Lee would be a widow.’ And he gazed thoughtfully at the window.

Mr. Aristotle gave a shudder. ‘ Really,’ he said, ‘ how can you say such things? But anyhow, do you imagine for a moment that would make any difference? I tell you, she would never have you. You are too sober, my friend. Have you ever kissed a young woman when nobody was looking? That is what makes a man. You should try to act a little more like an artist. Then you would see the difference.’

‘I dare say you are right,’ said Mr. Moses sadly. ‘Still, I dislike to think of it. It is not the way I was brought up. Possibly there arc better things than having experiences, or being an artist. I will try to think a little more about God. Then perhaps these things will not bother me so much.’

V

The sparrows did not like to spend much time in Dr. Twine’s garden, where a tiny bird-house had been erected for them on a pole. Active, greedy, and choleric, they preferred the streets, full of traffic, in which their cries were lost beneath the noise of wheels. They explored the gutters with anxiety, and hupped about on the roofs of houses which seemed like mountains to them. As they swooped in and out between motors moving in every direction, they seemed to be saying, —

‘One must be bright and quick in this world. Get what you can; and we will discuss it later.’

They were true inhabitants of the city.

Nevertheless, they sometimes made use of Dr. Twine’s little garden for their wooing. There, in the mild sun, hidden from the streets by red and yellow walls, the birds enjoyed their brief and simple courtships. The male wished to show that he was a fine fellow after all; and the female replied by giving him some sharp pecks with her beak. Then they retired into the birdhouse, and set up housekeeping for a day, or a week. They took their furniture with them: a dove’s feather, or a bunch of twigs; and their quarrels filled the garden with chirping.

They did not disturb anyone at No. 12 Barrow Street, where the wedding of Mr. Aristotle and Ana belle Lee was being celebrated. Clad in a long veil which reached to the floor, the bride hung limply from Amy May’s hand, next to the groom, who was supported by Christopher Lane. Before them stood the puppet-master; behind them Mrs. Holly, the Reverend Dr. Twine, and Jane Demonstration, with a ribbon around her neck; while from ihe walls and corners of the shop, Mr. Aristotle’s former companions regarded him with wooden and unpitying glances.

Amy May’s face was flushed and serious; the hand which held the fainting Anabelle Lee was warm and wet. Christopher also was solemn. In a hush made deeper by the sound of the birds outside, Papa Jonas remarked: —

‘There have come before me two small and quiet beings. One is of wood, the other is of rags. They have never spoken, and we have no reason to believe that they have ever heard the words we have addressed to them. At the same time, let us not make the mistake of denying to mot ionless forms a life of which we happen to be ignorant. For life is every where, and in everything; it is as pervasive as it is mysterious. Everywhere it is full of joy and anguish; everywhere it is lovely, patient, and brave. It has no purpose save to continue; it has no aim save to extend itself.

‘And it extends itself by love. It sacrifices itself, in order to be born again. This is the object of marriage; and for this reason marriage is tragic. For it is a form of death. Life renews itself only at the cost of life; the new destroys and feeds upon the old. Lincaring, immortal, nature views with equal indifference the agony of birth and the pangs of dissolution. It is all one to her; it is all the same.

‘From the marriage of insects, other insects are born, with frightful claws and ardent dispositions. The swift, shy birds give birth to winged forms, from whom the same sweet songs ascend. From the wedding of minds, new thoughts are conceived; they are like the old, but they are fresh and passionate with youth. And from the wedding of souls, new hopes arise.

‘All marriages are fruitful. May this one, too, be fruitful: of peace, of quiet joy.’

‘It won’t be,’ said Christopher.

‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ whispered Mrs. Holly. ‘ Be a little gay.’

Papa Jonas continued: —

‘About us and around us, the air, the earth, and the sea are filled with exquisite and ethereal beings, with faces angry, joyous, and unhappy. Unheard by human ears, the elements resound with cries of pain and with declarations of love, with laughter and with weeping. These bright, invisible beings mingle in the air, in the earth, and under the sea, seeking each other, seeking themselves in each other— '

He paused and, bending down, grasped the tiny hands of Mr. Aristotle and Anabelle Lee. ‘O divine, unpitying gods,’ he exclaimed, ‘you in whose hands are placed these shapes that we inhabit, these patterns in which we perform, spirits of life, of fruitfulness, of increase, immortal children of the eternal mother, look down upon this wedding of two little dolls. And you, happy spirits of air, bright-eyed citizens of fire, wise gnomes and tender nymphs, watch over your little brother and sister, and wish them well. Comfort and instruct these tiny creaturcs to whom my words are like the sound of streams, musical and meaningless.’

Afternoon light was falling through the room in yellow, dusty bars, steady, and full of dancing motes. All was still; drowsily, in the distance, remote and faint, voices disputed on the street, and died away. A truck went clattering by; the echoes dwindled; and the birds sang.

Papa Jonas placed the two dolls’ hands together. ‘Do you, Ana belle Lee,’ he said, ‘take Mr. Aristotle to be your husband, out of love and desire, and with honest intention?’

"Yes, she does,’said Amy May.

"And do you, Air. Aristotle,’ he continued, ‘take Ana belle Lee to be your wife to cherish in so far as you are able?’

“ I do,’ said Christopher Lane.

‘Then,’ concluded Papa Jonas, ‘by the power of love in my heart, I pronounce you man and wife. I place your hands together; from now on you go as one, sharing the sun, the dew, the rain, and the dusk. You have set forth upon a road where brave and happy people have gone before you. It is a road which passes through many cemeteries, over whose mounds and little stones of heart-break roses are growing. You have hills to climb, and forests to go through, it is the road of life. May its streams be clear, and its forests fragrant. May you find shade at noon; and may the quiet stars of evening light you to your rest —

"Christopher, let us serve the refreshments.’

At once, from the garden below, an organ-grinder, hired for the occasion, began to play the Miserere.

‘Well,’ said the Reverend Twine, taking a breath. ‘Well—hem — ‘ And he looked at Mrs. Holly, whose eyes were wet with tears.

Amy May said nothing. She was already eating her ice-cream.