Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
“Herkneth these blisful briddes how they singe;
Ful is mine herte of revel and solas!”
ORNIS
(Miss Eleanor Wilson)
SANCTUARY
A Bird Masque
BY
PERCY MACKAYE
With a Prelude by
ARVIA MACKAYE
Illustrated with Photographs in Color and Monotone by
ARNOLD GENTHE
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1913, 1914, by
Percy MacKaye
All rights reserved
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
TO
ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
‘WILD NATURE’S HUMAN SYMPATHIZER’
IN ADMIRATION OF HIS DAUNTLESS
SERVICE TO THE BIRDS
NOTE
REGARDING PERFORMANCE AND PUBLIC READING
Requests for permission to perform or read publicly
this Bird Masque having been received
from a great many quarters, the following information
is here given for those desiring such
permission:
The Masque is copyrighted in the United States
and countries of the Copyright Union, and all
rights are reserved.
The purpose of the Masque is to be of public use,
so that all adequate presentations of it are welcome.
To this end the special conditions of
performance or public reading should in each
case be communicated direct to the author, in
care of the publisher.
No performances may be given without such direct
communication, and permission thus first obtained.
As the publication of this text is designed to serve
the definite cause for which it was written, performances
Imust be, in some degree at least, for
the benefit of Wild Bird Conservation.
Music for the lyrics “The Hermit Thrush” and
the three songs of Quercus has been composed
by Frederick S. Converse, and is published by
the H. W. Gray Company, 2 West 45th Street,
New York.
A bird bath, specially designed for use in bird
sanctuaries and gardens, with plastic groupings
of characters in the original cast of this Masque,
has been executed by Mrs. Louis Saint-Gaudens,
Cornish, New Hampshire, post office Windsor,
Vermont.
The four photographs in color, as well as those in
black and white, which illustrate this volume
were taken by Dr. Arnold Genthe of enactors
in the Masque, as first performed by members
of the Cornish Colony and the Meriden Bird
Club at Meriden, New Hampshire, September
12, 1913.
ix
FOREWORD
This Masque was written for the dedication of
the bird sanctuary of the Meriden Bird Club
of Meriden, New Hampshire, where it was first
performed on the night of September twelfth,
1913. The text was composed, the lyrics set to
music, the masque rehearsed, costumed and acted,
within the brief space of a month. Its production
came about by a spontaneous and glad cooperation
of artists, neighbors, lovers of nature, imbued
with a deep feeling in common—concern for the
welfare of wild birds. In this important concern
its enactors were happily encouraged by the sympathetic
presence of the President of the United
States and the participation of his family.
Swift and spontaneous as its production was,
however, the masque in its reasons for being was
not unpremeditated. It took its origin from two
important sources, rarely, if ever, associated—nature
study, and the art of the theatre.
The union of these was its raison d’etre.
However tentative its realization, it stands
none the less as a pioneering suggestion of real moment
xto those two potent influences upon our national
life. As such it has seemed worth while to
present to the public, and to make clear the suggestion
which it illustrates, however sketchily.
From a recent volume by the writer on “The
Civic Theatre, in Relation to the Redemption of
Leisure,” I quote the following paragraphs upon
“Nature Symbols,” as they apply directly to this
subject:
“The relation of the theatre’s art to the naturalist’s
vocation is probably not obvious to the man
on the street. That is because the commercial
theatre relates itself to so few of the pursuits of
science outside of Broadway interests. The civic
theatre would do otherwise.
“Aristophanes symbolized the birds for the purposes
of Greek satire. The costuming of his play
in Athens probably expressed no direct attribution
to the science of ornithology. Yet its attribution
to the Greek race’s intimate love of Nature was
as spontaneous as the symbolizing of flowers in the
capitals of their temple columns. The movement
to-day for the conservation of our birds and their
more intimate study might well take on significant,
lovely forms of symbolic expression in pageants,
festivals and the drama of the civic theatre.
“By the same art, the fascinating designs, embossings,
xicolorings, of insect forms could be symbolized
in spectacles of astonishing beauty, motivated
dramatically to the real and tremendous
human relation which that ignored but pestiferous
race bears to human society and the state; as witness
the movement, involving millions in taxes, for
exterminating the gypsy moth and the boll weevil.
“Such implications for art may seem, at first,
a far cry from actual possibilities of the theatre;
yet thus may the civic theatre directly relate its
activities not only to the enthusiasms of naturalists
in the fields and woods, but to the inspiring
studies of scholars in their laboratories: a cooperation
which may soon stultify the popular notion
that art and science are divorced in their
special aims. The same relation of the theatre’s
symbolic art to all the sciences—the discoveries of
chemistry, the splendid imaginings of engineering—is
implied in their common aim: the bringing of
greater joy, beauty, understanding, to our fellow
men and women, the people.
“Science represents idea, art its expression; theatrical
art its expression in forms best adapted to
convened numbers of the people. The forms of
popular art, therefore, are limited only by the
ideas of man.”
It is thus as an illustration of one of the multiform
xiigenres of the civic theatre’s potential art
that this little masque has its main significance.
Before the actual establishment of the Civic
Theatre among us, the opportunities of the working
dramatist to make tangible contributions by
his art to its repertory are, of course, very scant
and at best groping and experimental. One such
as the present may serve, however, to suggest
certain immediate, practical possibilities.
If, for instance, every bird sanctuary were to
possess its stage and auditorium for bird masques—if
every Natural History Museum had its outdoor
theatre, equipped to set forth the multitudinous
human meanings of its nature exhibits to the
crowds that frequent its doors in their hours of
leisure—if the directors of every Zoölogical Park
were to provide for it a scenic arena, and seek the
civic cooperation of the dramatic poet and theatrical
expert, to vivify by their art the tremendous
life stories of wild nature to the receptive
minds of the human thousands convened to listen
and behold—by such means, would not the disciples
of nature study not simply adopt for their
own ends a means of education and publicity a
thousandfold more dynamic, imaginative and
popular than any of the static means of exhibits,
lectures and published volumes on which they
xiiinow rely: would they not also thereby splendidly
assist in enlarging the civic scope of the theatre’s
art, still cramped, as for generations, within the
walls of speculation and commercialism?
These suggestions speak for themselves.
If this Bird Masque shall help, in the slightest
degree, to illustrate them, it will do its ephemeral
service in the only permanent sanctuary of men as
of birds—imagination.
Percy MacKaye.
Cornish, New Hampshire,
October, 1913.
xv
PERSONS OF THE MASQUE[1]
in the order of their appearance
PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME
Hunter Attendants of Stark
Many species of birds—in human form, garbed symbolically
SCENE
The sylvan glade of a bird sanctuary.
xvii
xviii
THE LITTLE GIRL FALLS INTO REVERIE
xix
THE PRELUDE
Wandering in the quiet of the bird sanctuary, a little girl hears the voice of a hermit thrush, and meditates this song:
While walking through a lonely wood
I heard a lovely voice:
A voice so fresh and true and good
It made my heart rejoice.
It sounded like a Sunday bell
Rung softly in a town,
Or like a stream that in a dell
Forever trickles down.
It seemed to be a voice of love
That always had loved me,
So softly it rang out above,
So wild and wanderingly.
O Voice, were you a golden dove,
Or just a plain gray bird?
O Voice, you are my wandering love
Lost, yet forever heard.
xxPassing on deeper into the wood, the little girl thinks dreamily of all wild birds and the wrongs done to them by their human brothers and sisters.
Out of her reverie grows the Masque which follows.
3
THE MASQUE
I
The woods are silent, save for bird pipings.
In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine.
Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark.
On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole.
In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath.
4Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head of Quercus, a faun.
Stealing forth, Quercus approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant.
Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings.
Veery, veery!—vireo!
Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!
Ori-ori-oriole!
Seek our sanctuary!
Robin rath,
Little tail-twitcher,
Drink from my pitcher,
Dip in my bath!
Dew’s in my bath,
Rain’s in my pitcher,
Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:
Hither, highhole!
Redpoll!
Oriole!
Vireo!—veery!
[From his pitcher plant Quercus pours5 into the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls:]
Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?
To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.
Still enter not.
The race of wings reigns in this solitude.
No foot may here intrude
Without fair passport. Tell me first your name
And cause of coming here.
7
II
Quercus. Alwyn.
[A Young Man enters, pausing in the path.]
From hence even now a piping filled mine ear
With quaintish memory: familiar,
Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same
Lulling to paleness the white morning star
Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came
To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks,
I know him, by those horns and merry winks.
—Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!
Now, by Lord Pan!
The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—
8Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!
You!—Can it really be?
It can,
And is—by Pan, our ancient pastor!
But you, slant shanks, what make you here at dawn?
Newfangleness! The classic gout
Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,
But now they run new errands.
Lo, the sign
Of my new office!
Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary:
Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See,
My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius!
Old mythologic nature-faker,
He’s out of date with his caduceus.
Behold in me
A modern science-tutored fairy
9And practical care-taker—
Grand marshal of the martin-house!
[Pointing at Quercus’ staff.]
Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat
And little pattern.
[Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole.]
Yonder, you behold
The real palace. Through those portals
We lure the feathered broods to fold
Their wings above the world of thievish mortals.
Myself and my lord master.
Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser.
He is the fellow of all friendless things,
10Wild nature’s human sympathizer:
In form a man, yet footed so with silence
The deer mistake him for their brother; so
Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings;
An eye, that glows and twinks
Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear
That harks a mile hence
The purring of a lynx!
I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know
Naught of him—but his love.
Yea, what men call him by;
And he is like the same.
Men call him Master Shy.
Ah, Shy, the naturalist.
Why, he is my good crony. If he wist
11To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.
How do you serve him?
I’m crew to his Jason!
I multiply myself for rare adventures,
And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter,
Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason,
Seed-storer, water-carrier,
Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher,
Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.
Nay, do you please in all?
I carry to his call,
And never yet have earned his censures
For botch or shirk.
I prithee show me of your handiwork.
What’s here—this little box
With paddle wings?
One of our weather-cocks.
Look you, it swings:
So when, in winter, the white tempest blows,
Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows,
With porch turned ever to the cosy side.
In that cold time, my master Shy
Brings more devices to provide
Bird-comfort: Food-bells full of millet
We place in covert nooks, and tie
Our knitted suet bags on many a bough
Of pine and larch. And I must plough
Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet
For little beaks to drink.
By Phœbus, now
Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,
That wont of yore to dally
On violet-scented lawn
With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!
What modern change is here? What magic—
[With lowered voice, he looks around warily.]
I am not always quite so modern!
At times—at times—as when just now
You heard me pipe below this bough—
I slip my master’s traces,
And slink by paths untrodden
To lovelorn, lush
Arcadian places,
Where Philomel still lingers,
Plaining her ancient pity,
And there I fetch forth this
With idling fingers,
And, pouting on its lip my kiss,
I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.
[Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly.]
Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.
14
“IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?”
15
III
[Enters, carrying a nest-box.]
A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.
Good morning, friend! How comes it you are caught
Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,
Salute the sunrise only in their song.
Fie, then! You do us wrong:
We rhyming slugabeds
Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,
For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.
Poets are owls that elegize the lark.
And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!
16Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:
Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,
To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,
And teach him craftily
To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.
[Patting Quercus’ shoulder.]
Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve
My modern apprehensions: Tutor him,
Hoof, head and limb,
And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,
God shall provide the dawn,
And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.
Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.
Truth is more sweet than melody,
And wisdom than melodious words.
When you have learned to greet
With their own mystic speech all living birds
And minister to their necessity,
This pipe shall be restored, and we will make
Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.
[In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from Quercus. Shy then addresses Quercus.]
This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough
Of that tall maple. Place it well,
Like yonder one.
Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!
You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.
First tell me of your other questing—
Those errands which I sent you yesterday.
Indeed she did, the pest!
She laid it in a redstart’s nest;
But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it
And cracked it cursory:
Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery
Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.
Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?
What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?
Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!
That almost got you in the fix:
Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,
19And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.
Eh, master, it’s your shoe that pinches!
When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels
Good to be wicked.
But tell me of our forest planting ground:
What shrubs and creepers have you found
And marked, to make our shelter thicket?
Why, sir, to give it
Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose
Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,
Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,
Black haw, and dangleberry.
A proper list!
What trees—deciduous?
Box-elder and bird cherry,
White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.
What make you thus?
Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?
Good poet, whist!
No more mythology.
Your faun is learning better. Truce!
So, Quercus: and what evergreens?
White spruce,
Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.
Good, fellow! Fine!
In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch
Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch
That squirrel there, before
He makes his call at your new nest-box door.
[Skipping to the maple tree.]
Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!
Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!
When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go
And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!
[Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]
22
23
IV
Shy—honest friend, your hand once more!
Heartily! Welcome to this wood.
Do you recall how once we stood
Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—
Dryads and poet’s dreams?
Yes, I recall
I wondered at them all.
First—as to-day—you smiled
Your incredulity of my quaint creed,
Till soon, in further converse, we agreed
24In nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled.
For both of us seek nature’s fellowship,
The common language of all living things:
I—more in music of the human lip,
You—in the whirr of beaks and wings.
So both—craving the beautiful—
Still worship the same shrine and oracle:
This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.
I will confess
Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia
I worship her
Alone.
Because her moods are numberless
I do the same. Between the heart of Man
And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan,
She stands and moves—divine interpreter,
Translating with her shy and pagan dances
Our world life and its trances.
She is, in truth,
The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.
What if, through her as intermediary,
And after thousand ages of uncouth
Estrangement,—what, I say, if we
Might find through her the key
To comprehend the native speech of birds,
And hold communion with them in our human words!
Would not that be a modern consummation
Nobler than fable?
Almost, I would have said, we might be able,
If it were not for one who scorns this shrine
And violates the beauty of creation,
Marring all contemplative quietude.
One whom the red wine
Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister
Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.
26Close by this wood
He plies a bold, sinister
Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance
But calculated orgies, he commits
His venal murders, slits
The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds,
And leaves the nested broods
Unhatched or starveling. So he girds
His loins, and like the Patagonian
Displays his feathered trophies: not a man
Swayed by ecstatic moods,
Nor even to equip
A hardy sportsmanship;
Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds,
And when we challenge, smiling he responds:
“Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay
For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”
What is this desecrator’s name?
Surely he dares not
Track his defenseless game
Here to this hallowed spot!
No place is holy to unhallowed minds:
He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.
Still I have faith
That Tacita, in her serenity,
Is mightier than he.
Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate
And crushes like a flower.
Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.
So now, while nature muses in the thrush,
Here let us sit this hour,
28And meditate
On Tacita, till meditation shall create
Its own shy image.—Hush!
[They sit upon a log and listen.]
29
V
[Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in
the forest. Dimly from the background
Tacita appears. With steps of reverie,
she approaches, and pauses before
them. Alwyn looks up and, touching
Shy’s arm, speaks low.]
Tacita! It is she!
Dryad, and spirit of serenity,
Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew
Upon our pathway, intervene
For us with that still-undiscovered queen—
Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs
30Spirit of birds and sister of our race,
Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet,
And by their moods arouse
Her hidden grace
To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.
[To mysterious music, Tacita treads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her. Alwyn and Shy watch her, rapt and expectant.
Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth.]
31
VI
[With a gesture of startled wildness, Tacita breaks abruptly from her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously from the other side there enters, swift but staggering, Ornis—a maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters forward.]
Ee-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary!
[Swaying, she falls to the ground. Alwyn and Shy spring toward her.]
Wing-struck! Here’s blood.
Up, birdling! Here is Shy.
[Soothingly strokes Ornis’ arm and shoulder.]
So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!
[Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to Shy.]
[Sprinkling water upon Ornis, sings gaily.]
Ó-ree-o!
When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair,
And leaves both large and long,
’Tis merry walking in the fair forést
To hear the small birds’ song!
[Bending over her, calls low.]
In sanctuary. Have no fear.
[Looking from one to the other.]
Ah, me! But what are these?
My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.
Through Tacita you know us now; we can
Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.
A thousand ages—they are past,
And dumbness, like a dream,
Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake,
And each to each
Can bid good-morning in our common speech.
How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking
From callous slumber and old wrong?
So sorrowfully long
The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!—
Was it a savage dream?
Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam
And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher
I showered His temple woods with ecstasy;
When suddenly
36The earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fire
Shattered my wing. I fell.—
Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast
In smear of lime; swift from below
A tangling net was cast
Where, panting upward, a black hell
Of bloody mouths barked under me;
And there beside them—oh,
There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty,
A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes
Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,”
I cried, “O Sanctuary!”
And you woke
With us, your brothers—healed.
Oh, have you heard
What now I spoke?
And can we answer truly, word for word?
[Turning eagerly from one to the other.]
Many an age and long!
No syllable has bubbled in your song
But I have blown it first from yonder trees:
No brooding-place of yours—but I was in the breeze;
And ever to your whistle
I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.
[Tacita appears remotely.]
O beautiful my brothers!
O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn,
How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun
As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.
[A crashing resounds in the thicket. Tacita disappears.]
Still others—our fellow man.
Kind hearts and cruel are one clan.
Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.
Come, brothers, let us look:
It may be one who needs our friendliness.
Come with me!
Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.
[Suddenly recoiling with a cry.]
[She flies to their protection. Quercus also scampers back fearfully, and hides.]
40
VII
Stark. Ornis. Alwyn. Shy.
[Enter Stark, in garb of a hunter. He
wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his
head is gorgeously plumed. Behind
him, two panting dogs are held in leash
by attendants. Stark rushes toward
Ornis, passes her oblivious, and seizes
up the fallen bird.]
Bagged!—Hold off the dogs!
[The Attendants withdraw with the hounds.]
[As Stark grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain.]
A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing
Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.
41
43Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner.
[He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he sees Alwyn and Shy, and greets them gaily.]
Halloa! Fine hunting weather!
This ground is sanctuary.
A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.
Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat.
I only plume myself—to trim a hat.
Besides, I shot outside your pale;
And now
[Touching his pouch, he winks.]
You bag the spangle
And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place
To preach or wrangle
Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher.
So I would only learn of you: what joy
Urges you to destroy
So gracious, fair
And innocent a fellow-creature
As yonder?
Our sister, who stands there
And dumbly pleads for all her race—
And ours.
By Christ in Hades,
My eyes see nothing but a brace
Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies
And show me—no one.
Look more near.
Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!
I heard a bird call from that bough.
[Peeping toward Shy from the bushes.]
Did you spy
That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back
Into the bush?
I saw
A stirring in that staghorn sumach,
And caught a rabbit’s eye.—
What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!
Good day to you!
Stay yet!
Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands,
Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands
Of our shy sister: Can you see
No timid form beside him?
Perfectly
My eyes discern
A man, who peers within the morning mist,
And murmurs to the air,
And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there.
In short, I see a sentimentalist.
I am not of that ilk.
[Calling]—Ho, there!—Holá!
Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.
Stay, and learn
What we ourselves have only learned through quiet
48Listening. So long, in rampant haste,
Your dizzy soul has chased
The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac,
That you have lost the track
Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot
Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space!
Put off that blood-emblazed regalia
Gorgeous with death,
And draw with me one meditative breath
Here in the temple of cool Tacita.
[Who has listened with half-amused curiosity.]
Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?
One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.
Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.
Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?
And may this wonder dawn on my horizon
If I remain?
Why, now, you stir my fancies.
In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do
This hour. Come, I will wait
And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be
More lovely than my eyes did ever see!
With loveliness more deep than eyes discover.
So, ’tis a bargain, then?
Sit by me here;
And if your musings cause no fear,
You shall behold her in her secret dances.
By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her!
[He sits on the log beside Alwyn. Ornis still stands apart, under Shy’s protection. Quercus enters, beckoning backward into the wood.]
51
VIII
Tacita. Alwyn. Ornis. Stark. (Shy. Quercus.)
Now, Tacita, shy pagan nymph, appear!
[Tacita enters from her shrine of greenery, and pauses before them.]
Spirit, unblind this man! Delusions blur
Inward his sight. He is a murderer,
Yet knows not he is such. Unseal
The fountains of his vision, and reveal
Yonder the sister spirit, whom so long
His blind heart strove to wrong—
Ornis: Reveal, and let him speak with her!
[Soft music sounds, various and elusive52 in its rhythmic themes. Tacita approaches Stark, and weaves about him a dance of revelation, lulling, charming, luring him by the appeal of numberless wing-swayings and bird-dartings, for which the music suggests the song-notes. During her dance, Stark rises, bewildered, and is gradually lured and led by her toward Ornis, before whom—at the consummation of the dance—he stands, staring.]
[Rising, speaks to the music.]
O twilight—holy dusk—dawn twitterings!
How far, how dim and hollow
You darkle over me:
Wings, wings! swift wings, shy wings, eternal wings!
Where shall I follow?
Ah, joy—jubilant melody—
And morning! Joy—I follow!
I dream, and drink from your immortal springs!
[Tacita disappears. Stark beholds Ornis.]
53
IX
Stark. Ornis. (Alwyn. Quercus. Shy.)
What
are you?
[Appealing with half-fearful affection.]
[With sudden cry and gesture.]
Ha, my net!
The shy bird shall be captured ’live!
[From his shoulder he looses the net, and flings it over Ornis, seizing the meshes.]
Now, Joy,
I hold you fast!
Untamed, and still unshamed! Will you destroy
The wings that raise you? Sister, speak to him!
My brothers—all of you! Oh, wage not war
Because of me. I fear not. Stark, you dim
The brightness of our union, greeting so
Your sister.
Hunt no more
With lime and net: Your love shall hold me faster;
For I am Ornis.
Dear my master!
Do you not know me? I am she
Whom first, beneath the dark, ancestral tree,
You rose upon your feet to hearken to.
By me you grew
To song and freedom. Round your olden feasts
You watched my circling flights, whereby your priests
Proclaimed their omens and their oracles;
My cranes announced your victories, my storks
Fed your hearth-fires, my silver-throated gulls
And golden hawks
Saved many your sea-towns from sore pestilence;
And my sweet night bird tuned your poets’ shells
To lull sad lovers in languorous asphodels;
56Yet all my influence
Shone dimmer than my beauty: my bright plumes
Lured you to squander them, till, in the fumes
Of greed, your heart forgot to cherish me,
And sold me unto death and slavery.—
Yet, master, as you will:
Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!
[With altered tone of yearning.]
Yet—yet it seems I never heard your voice
Till now; nor ever understood
Till now; nor paused, as now in this still wood,
To tremble and rejoice
At greeting you, my sister. I am stunned,
And wait to comprehend this wonder.
Ah,
You never prayed before to Tacita!
Your feet have shunned
Her gracious paths, yet only she
Can lead and show my brother Man to me.
57
“Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!”
Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument
Of murder here? What black intent
Clouded my mind with blood?
Out of my hands!—My sister, can it be
That still you soar above my sanguine flood
Of passion, and forgive? Though yet I kill,
Oh, is it true indeed—you love me still?
Ha, put me to the test!
Show me the field that breeds your harvest pest
Of chinch or weevil,
Where all the blossoms wither with strange evil,
Or where, in filmy tents,
The hairy creepers gorge in regiments
Your budding apple boughs;
Show your ancestral elms
60Gaunt limbed with leprosy, which overwhelms
Their green old age in death;
Or those swift locust clouds, whose breath
Blasts the ripe loveliness of Spring;
Show these, and more
Than these, and cry on Ornis! She shall bring—
From hill and shore
And plain—her wingèd flocks and warbling broods,
And swinge away their deadly multitudes.—
If service be true love, I love you, brother.
And for her sake, so we will love each other.
[He takes Stark’s right hand.]
[Whispering to the faun.]
I skip,
I gambol, master. Ha!
I have a tale to tell to Tacita!
[As Stark tears off his headdress of plumes.]
For these my heart shall build a fire
Here at this shrine:
[He hangs the headdress on a tree.]
And here, as on a pyre,
I place them, with this pouch, which hides
The victims of my blind desire.
There, at sad cost,
I let them tell my pain—the votive part
Of one long lost,
62Who now has found himself in nature’s heart.—
Ornis, my trail divides:
There lie the ashes of the thing I was.
Henceforth, I walk with you—
[Turning to Alwyn and Shy.]
A compact, then, we three: that when we go
Forth from these gracious trees
Into the world, we go as witnesses
Before the men who make our country’s laws,
And by our witness show
In burning words
The meaning of these sylvan mysteries:
Freedom and sanctuary for the birds!
Say, is our compact sworn?
[Enter Quercus and Tacita.]
63
X
Tacita. Quercus. Stark. Ornis. Shy. Alwyn.
Look, sister: friends are coming.
Now lead us to their shrine close by.
Oh, first let all make joy of this our union!
For now my glad heart, like a partridge drumming,
Calls for my mates to join us, all together,
In frolicsome communion.
Ho, Quercus, Quercus, call them!—Tacita,
Summon them with your fairy feet!
[Taking from his pouch Quercus’ pipe.]
Call loud and long!
Here’s our old pipe, to carry a new song.
[Alwyn puts the pipe to his lips, while Quercus sings to it, calling to the birds. At the end, Quercus begs in pantomime for the pipe which Alwyn, smiling, restores to him.]
Come here, come here, you little comrades coy,
From hill and swamp and heather:
Make joy, make joy
Together!—
Tawny beak and scarlet vest,
Slant wing and sleek feather,
Bulging bill and cocking crest,
Hither!
Tumble out of nest,
Topple out of windy weather
Here, holá!
With preenings quaint,
Purple dyes and crimson paint,
Here, holá, in merry state!
65Up from dew-grass, down from aerie,
Tacita—Tacita
Summons you to dedicate
Here her sanctuary!
[While Quercus calls, from all sides Birds of many species and colors—like Ornis human in form—gather, and peer from the edges of the scene. To these Tacita now beckons, and by her gesture summons to her dance, while Quercus plays joyously on his pipe.]
Bird and faun and man and fairy,
Gather now to sanctuary!
[Tacita first dances alone, then with Quercus; then, inviting and leading them all in pied procession, she marshals all away into her woodland shrine.]
69
AFTERWORD
In the original production of this masque,
referred to in the Foreword, the sanctuary
stage was devised by Mr. Joseph Lindon
Smith in two planes—the natural and the
supernatural, harmoniously blended.
The natural plane, in the foreground, was
a leaf-strewn plot of earth; the supernatural,
in the background, was a constructed stage
some eighteen inches higher, sloping slightly
upward toward the back, covered with
smooth canvas, practical for dancing, so
painted as to suggest a weathered outcropping
of rock, overgrown in places by moss
and greensward.
This constructed stage was divided from
the foreground earth by the trunk of a felled
maple tree, straight in line and inconspicuous
in color.
In front of this dividing line, SHY and
Alwyn remained always in the natural
plane; behind it, Ornis and Tacita remained
always in the supernatural. Their scenes
70together were enacted near or beside the
fallen tree trunk.
In the scene of his conversion, Stark was
lured into the higher plane by Tacita; while
Quercus alone among the characters
skipped back and forth from one plane to
the other.
As audience, the non-participating spectators
sat in dominoes of brown, flanked on
either side by the bird-participants in their
pied bird costumes. These latter watched
the performance until, at the finale, they
were summoned by Quercus upon the constructed
stage.
There, when all had been marshalled, entered
the Cardinal Bird [enacted by Mr.
Herbert Adams, the sculptor], accompanied
by two small scarlet-tanager acolytes
[boys], bearing great candles, to light a
crimson cushion held by the Cardinal. On
the cushion lay an open scroll.
This scroll, itself a sheet of parchment-like
paper from the original press of Benjamin
Franklin, had been inscribed by Mr.
Stephen Parrish with a Sonnet-Epilogue,
71
Cardinal Bird and Hummingbird
73composed by the author of the masque and
signed by all of its participants, with their
real names opposite the species of birds they
severally impersonated.
Moving slowly forward to music till he
stood before President and Mrs. Wilson,
where they sat near the centre of the first
row of the audience, the Cardinal Bird,
with simple dignity, read from the scroll this
EPILOGUE
Addressed to Mrs. Woodrow Wilson:
Lady, WHEREAS your gentle patronage
And presence have to-night so favored us
In this our ritual, that you have thus
Lent to our earnest cause a double gage:
One gracious daughter to make glad our stage
And one to make its theme harmonious
With song—whose sire now makes illustrious
The larger theatre of our living age:
Therefore, ere yet the privilege be spent
Which grants our thoughts the spell of human words,
74We vow by you, here in this tranquil wood,
Our loyal love to him—the President,
Whose heart has heard the call of the wild birds,
And sign ourselves
Your Servants, with gratitude.
Having thus presented the scroll, the
Cardinal Bird with his Acolytes retired to
the stage, where the final dance and procession
of the bird-participants then took place.
The Programme of the performance
[omitting that part of the Prelude already
printed on pages xix and xx] was as follows:
UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF
MRS. WOODROW WILSON
AND THE FOLLOWING COMMITTEE
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS
MRS. C. C. BEAMAN
ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
KENYON COX
PERCY MACKAYE
MAXFIELD PARRISH
CHARLES A. PLATT
MRS. GEORGE RUBLEE
LOUIS EVAN SHIPMAN
JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
MRS. AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS
MEMBERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB JOIN WITH RESIDENTS
OF CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, AND THEIR
FRIENDS, TO PRESENT A MASQUE IN THE INTEREST OF
AMERICAN WILD BIRD PROTECTION
75PRELUDE
SONG “THE HERMIT THRUSH”
SUNG BY MISS MARGARET WILSON
THE SONG COMPOSED BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE TO WORDS BY ARVIA MACKAYE, WHO ENACTS THE PART OF THE LITTLE GIRL
MERIDEN, NEW HAMPSHIRE:
SEPTEMBER 12, 1913
SANCTUARY
A BIRD MASQUE
BY PERCY MACKAYE
PERFORMED UNDER THE FOLLOWING DIRECTION
STAGE PRODUCTION BY JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
DANCING BY JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE
ORIGINAL MUSIC BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE
PROPERTIES BY WILLIAM HOWARD HART
PROGRAMME DESIGN BY KENYON COX
PERSONS IN THE MASQUE
IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE
| QUERCUS |
FAUN |
JOSEPH LINDON SMITH |
| ALWYN |
POET |
PERCY MACKAYE |
| SHY |
NATURALIST |
ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES |
| TACITA |
DRYAD |
JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE |
| ORNIS |
BIRD SPIRIT |
ELEANOR WILSON |
| STARK |
PLUME HUNTER |
WITTER BYNNER |
| |
ATTENDANT |
LEONARD COX |
| THE CARDINAL BIRD |
HERBERT ADAMS |
| FIRST ACOLYTE |
ROBIN MACKAYE |
| SECOND ACOLYTE |
PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS |
BIRD PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME
| BLUEBIRD |
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS |
| CARDINAL GROSBEAK |
MR. HERBERT ADAMS |
| OWL |
MISS CHARLOTTE ARNOLD |
| BALTIMORE ORIOLE |
MISS FRANCES ARNOLD |
| OWL |
MISS GRACE ARNOLD |
| RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD |
MR. LEROY BARNETT |
| GOLDFINCH |
MISS BIGELOW |
| DOWNY WOODPECKER |
MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES |
| DOWNY WOODPECKER |
MRS. EDSON BEMIS |
| DOWNY WOODPECKER |
MR. EDSON BEMIS |
| GOLDFINCH |
MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN |
| BLUE JAY |
MISS LOUISE CONVERSE |
| BLUE JAY |
MISS VIRGINIA CONVERSE |
| KINGBIRD |
MRS. KENYON COX |
| CROW |
MR. KENYON COX |
| FLICKER |
MISS CAROLINE COX |
| SCARLET TANAGER |
MR. ALLYN COX |
| BLUEBIRD |
MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN |
| HOUSE WREN |
MISS ELIZABETH EVARTS |
| RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET |
MR. PRESCOTT EVARTS |
| OWL |
MR. ELWIN FEY |
| SCARLET TANAGER |
MR. CHARLES FULLER |
| GOLDFINCH |
MRS. CONGER GOODYEAR |
| RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET |
MISS LENA HARDY |
| WOOD THRUSH |
MISS RUTH HALL |
| EVENING GROSBEAK |
MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART |
| HAWK |
MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD |
| KINGBIRD |
MISS KING |
| KINGBIRD |
MISS CLARA KING |
| BLUEBIRD |
MRS. HERBERT LAKIN |
| YELLOW WARBLER |
MISS ELEANOR LAKIN |
| YELLOW WARBLER |
MISS HETTY LAKIN |
| BLUEBIRD |
MISS BELLE LAVERACK |
| SNOW BUNTING |
MRS. PERCY MACKAYE |
| SWALLOW |
MISS HAZEL MACKAYE |
| HUMMINGBIRD |
MISS ARVIA MACKAYE |
| 77SCARLET TANAGER |
MASTER ROBIN MACKAYE |
| GOLDFINCH |
MISS ALICE MCCLARY |
| BLUEBIRD |
MISS ANNE PARRISH |
| CARDINAL BIRD |
MR. STEPHEN PARRISH |
| RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD |
MISS MARIE PARKER |
| HERMIT THRUSH |
MRS. MAXWELL PERKINS |
| GOLDFINCH |
MR. ROGER PLATT |
| SCARLET TANAGER |
MR. WILLIAM PLATT |
| RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD |
MISS EDNA RAPALLO |
| GOLDFINCH |
MISS HADLEY RICHARDSON |
| BLUE HERON |
MR. GEORGE RUBLEE |
| LOVE BIRD |
MRS. LOUIS SAINT-GAUDENS |
| SCARLET TANAGER |
MR. PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS |
| WOOD THRUSH |
MISS SCUDDER |
| BLUEBIRD |
MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN |
| INDIGO BUNTING |
MASTER EVAN SHIPMAN |
| WOODPECKER |
MISS FRANCES SMITH |
| WOODPECKER |
MISS REBECCA SMITH |
| BALTIMORE ORIOLE |
MISS CORDELIA TOWNSEND |
OFFICERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB
PRESIDENT, DR. ERNEST L. HUSE
VICE PRESIDENTS
MRS. E. E. WHEELER
MR. NEIL CRONIN
PROF. FRANK M. HOWE
PROF. CHESTER H. SEARS
SECRETARY, MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
TREASURER, MR. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
GENERAL MANAGER, MISS MARY L. CHELLIS
MASQUE COMMITTEE FOR THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB
MR. ROBERT BARRETT
MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN
MISS MARY A. FREEMAN
MR. ALBION E. LANG
MR. CHARLES ALDEN TRACY
MRS. E. E. WHEELER
COSTUMES
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS
MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN
MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
PHOTOGRAPHS, DR. ARNOLD GENTHE
BIRD-NOTES, MISS KATHERINE MINAHAN
INVITATIONS, MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN
AUTOMOBILES, MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD
STAGING AND SEATS
MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART
MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
The Canterbury Pilgrims. A Comedy.
Sappho and Phaon. A Tragedy.
Fenris the Wolf. A Tragedy.
A Garland to Sylvia. A Dramatic Reverie.
The Scarecrow. A Tragedy of the Ludicrous.
Yankee Fantasies. Five One-Act Plays.
Mater. An American Study in Comedy.
Anti-Matrimony. A Satirical Comedy.
To-morrow. A Play in Three Acts.
Sanctuary. A Bird Masque.
A Thousand Years Ago. A Romance of the Orient.
Lincoln: A Centenary Ode.
The Playhouse and the Play. Essays.
The Civic Theatre. Essays.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- moved page 2 to end.
- Silently corrected typographical errors.
- Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
