The Sword of Welleran and Other Stories

he last days of Autumn were streaming hence. Sol

me very

he dry land in the distance, whose shapes alread

was sti

haze deepened, mystery cr

ver came in crying

expecting the first star. Then the duck came in, and the widgeon, company by company: and all the light of day faded out of the sky saving one red band

n the stillness, and there was sile

athedral in the marshes bro

lt the huge cathedral, or it may have been seven centuri

of the organ went roaring over the marshes. But from the deep and perilous places, edged with bright mosses, the Wild Things

larger, and they leap to prodigious heights. They live all day under deep pools in the loneliest marshes, but at night they come up and dance. Each Wi

k down one by one into the pools of their home. Or if they tarry longer, sitting upon the rushes, their bodies fade from view as the marsh-fires pale in the light, and by daylight none may

lection of the stars. And as it leaped in its fantastic dance, it saw through the painted windows to where the people prayed, and heard the organ roaring over the marshes. The sound of the organ roared over the marshes, but the

northwards of the tumultuous geese, nor the wild rejoicing of the wings of the wildfowl when every feather sings, nor the wonder of the calm ice that comes when the snipe depart and beards the rushes with frost and

nd the lights were out, it w

ater, it went leaping away from star to star to the farthest edge of the ma

Things sitting under a tree, s

worship God, and to know the meaning of music, and to see

: 'What have we to do with God? We are only

wered, 'I want

a soul, one day you would have to die, and if you knew the meaning of music you wou

nt weepi

the Wild Things cannot sorrow long, having no souls to sorrow with, yet they felt for

went over the marshes till they came to the high fields among the flowers and grasses. And there t

bed sky, as all the colours changed in the restful spaces of evenin

ne up and down the marshes in the evening on the wings of the golden plover. And they put into it, too, the mournful song that the reeds are compelled to sing before the presence of the arrogant North Wind. Then each of the Wild Things ga

wn. And the queenly dawn appeared, and the marsh-lights of the Wild Things paled in the glare, and their bodies faded from view; and still the

t they had gathered in the marshlands, and wrapped it all

and wonderful lights were in it, green and blue; and they changed ceaseles

eft breast a little above the heart, and it will enter and you will become a human. But if you take it you can never be rid of it to become immortal again unless you pluck it out and give it to another; and w

ng up to Paradise, and all the angels going up and down. So it bid farewell with tears and thanks to the Wild T

t it had gone, but could not be so

r the water to where the marsh-fires were leaping up and down, and t

mehow with bundles of reeds, and went towards the lights of a house that stood close by. And she

er room, and clothed her and braided her hair, and brought her down again, and gave h

you come fro

the ma

ction?' said th

little Wild Thing

he marshes from the south

t do that,' sa

in the

' asked the f

ound a soul in the marshes, an

e agreed that she must be a gipsy who had been los

rmer's house, but her new soul stayed awake the who

s distances and the glamour of its perilous pools, with their fair and deadly mosses, and felt the marvel of the North Wind who comes dominant out of unknown icy lands, and the wonder of that ebb and flow of life when the wildfowl whirl in at evening to the marshlan

h, and through each ran momentary rivers of purple, errant between banks of gold. And the stalwart army of reeds appeared out of the gloom with all their pennons waving as

l never, never l

t down to eat the second meal of her life. The farmer a

have knives and forks,' one

near his cathedral, and presently returned and brought back

he farmer. 'This is Dean M

lost the other night in the marshes. It was

said the little Wild T

old are you?'

know,' sh

about how old y

nety,' she sa

rs!' exclai

,' she said; 'I am as

God, and have a soul and see the beauty of the world, and how all the Wild T

rnith, 'this is very wrong. God can

is you

name,' sh

e and a surname for you. What

he Rushes,

do at all,'

be called Terrible Nor

,' she

could call you Miss Rush if you like. How would Mary Rush do?

of the marshes took the names that were

mething for you to d

can give you

ything,' replied Mary

dral and live be

or the rest of that day Mary Jan

d solitary in the fields far off an ancient windmill stood, and his honest hand-made sails went round and round in the free East Anglian winds. Close by, the gabled houses leaned out over the streets, planted fa

wherever the streets ran eastwards, wherever were gaps in the houses, always there broke into view the sight of the great marshes, like to some bar of music weird and strange that haunts a melody, arising again and again

ood things for a

e night came up. One by one the merry lights of cheery l

reets were full, and then flooded away over green fields and plough, till it came to the sturdy mill and brought the miller trudging to evenson

od there in unlit vastnesses; great colonnades going away into the gloom, where evening and morning, year in year out, they did their work in the

the sound of the organ, roaring, and

t was but an elfin fancy, but she imagined clear in her new soul the seraphs passing

vice, a young curate, Mr. Mill

as glad that there were rivers having such names, and heard with w

's fair hair, and his voice went ringing down th

the making of the marshes; for the Wild Things never are lonely and never unhappy, but d

ore anyone moved to go, Mary Jane

you,'