Broken Bells - The Chase PATCHED
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Broken Bells - The Chase
The bells of Japan have a remarkably musical,silvery tone; tradition says that the finest have muchsilver in their composition, which may account fortheir deep and wonderful sweetness. Whether this betrue or not, they are much more musical than Japanesemusic itself. They are not sounded by a clapperwithin, but are struck from the outside, by a sort ofwooden arm or battering-ram. This might be imitated,by a little experimenting.
In the centre or at one side of the room have an orangegrove. The oranges are various small articles, eachwrapped in a wad of cotton, made as nearly round aspossible, covered with orange-colored tissue-paper andtied with a green string to the evergreen trees composingthe grove. Each purchaser is to select theorange he prefers, paying a trifle for it.
7. Blotter, calendar, and pen-wiper combined. Adozen pieces of colored blotting-paper tied togetherwith a ribbon; the outer one with a picture and asmall calendar pad pasted on; or there may be acover made of white cardboard decorated with goldor silver paper bells, or with flowers or leaves carefullyand separately cut from Japanese tissue-paper napkinsand pasted on. A tiny pen-wiper made of severalcircles of chamois is to be tied in one corner.
One of the smaller boys, who is also one of the liveliestin the society, should be chosen to personate Jack.He should be dressed in a close-fitting suit of white Cantonflannel, the fleecy side out, with here and there littletufts of cotton batting sprinkled with diamond dust.Long white stockings, with tiny bells sewed on them,and a few sprigs of holly, complete the costume.
Entering, the guests find themselves, to their surprise,not in a garden, but in a world of ice andsnow. Cotton sprinkled with diamond-dust is on allsides, with red berries and evergreen from the winterwoods; tables are spread for a feast in an ice grottowhere the palest of blue and green draperies are combinedwith mirrors and lights so arranged as to increasethe illusion; and there is a constant tinkle ofinvisible sleigh-bells.
Ceaselessly decreasing years behind, you would trip over my children still unborn, or child, if that I am. Wanderers like us look only for sunrises, the cold grass beneath is our only surprise, cynics under scrutiny with bored snake-eyes scanning for music. A harsh cardboard home to guard my evening from bitterness, and I need a lamp stand with no symbols for ideas to protect. Maroon was the color of my moment as a mystic, Stone-Climber, chained to a cliff against demons’ claws, but the truth of things knows every nuance, doesn’t chase any more than yesterday’s weather, except in times of flood. And the flood catches up, on the Nile, at home, even words used just once make a bucketful of drops. You make me wonder, Charon, if your bride is eternity, if you dream of living water, if the ripples of sinking fleets are a stone’s throw away from the mention of buoyancy or the salty piers where my feet dream; but go, ye, and learn what that meaneth, moral ascendancy is heir to lambs’ bleats, enchanted by licks of fire in stretches for the sky’s upper lip. What can be done when your river dries up, who can you carry across that warm windowsill, whose broomstick will you ride, whose song? I will wait for you, ferryman, I do everything slowly which is a lie, I will throw down my old locks and bear you up to this tower where clouds fly by at the speed of light, light just lazy enough for a symphony to finish, too nervous not to shatter the dawn. We will share a chalice of living water to the moment of my youth, before deeds added to knowledge make gray these days that flash, that sparkle, and are gone. 041b061a72