that the years had broken (and no one heeded the scourge and no one prayed and no one came with squealing sacrifice; and he had been a god), then I took pity on the little forgotten thing and prayed to it as perhaps they prayed long since, before the coming of the strange dark ships, and humbled myself and said:
“O idol, idol of the hard pale stone, invincible to the years, O scourge-holder, give ear for behold I pray.
“O little pale-green image whose wanderings are from far, know thou that here in Europe and in other lands near by, too soon there pass from us the sweets and song and the lion strength of youth: too soon do their cheeks fade, their hair grow grey and our beloved die; too brittle is beauty, too far off is fame and the years are gathered too soon; there are leaves, leaves falling, everywhere falling; there is autumn among men, autumn and reaping; failure there is, struggle, dying and weeping, and all that is beautiful hath not remained but is even as the glory of morning upon the water.
“Even our memories are gathered too with the sound of the ancient voices, the pleasant ancient voices that come to our ears no more; the very gardens of our childhood fade, and there dims with the speed of the years even the mind’s own eye.
“O be not any more the friend of Time, for the silent hurry of his malevolent feet have trodden down what’s fairest; I almost hear the whimper of the years running behind him hound-like, and it takes few to tear us.
“All that is beautiful he crushes down as a big man tramples daises, all that is fairest. How very fair are the little children of men. It is autumn with all the world, and the stars weep to see it.
“Therefore no longer be the friend of Time, who will not let us be, and be not good to him but pity us, and let lovely things live on for the sake of our tears.”
Thus prayed I out of compassion one windy day to the snout-faced idol to whom no one kneeled.
The Sphinx in Thebes (Massachusetts)
There was a woman in a steel-built city who had all that money could buy, she had gold and dividends and trains and houses, and she had pets to play with, but she had no sphinx.
So she besought them to bring her a live sphinx; and therefore they went to the menageries, and then to the forests and the desert places, and yet could find no sphinx.
And she would have been content with a little lion but that one was already owned by a woman she knew; so they had to search the world again for a sphinx.
And still there was none.
But they were not men that it is easy to baffle, and at last they found a sphinx in a desert at evening watching a ruined temple whose gods she had eaten hundreds of years ago when her hunger was on her. And they cast chains on her, who was still with an ominous stillness, and took her westwards with them and brought her home.
And so the sphinx came to the steel-built city.
And the woman was very glad that she owned a sphinx: but the sphinx stared long into her eyes one day, and softly asked a riddle of the woman.
And the woman could not answer, and she died.
And the sphinx is silent again and none knows what she will do.
The Reward
One’s spirit goes further in dreams than it does by day. Wandering once by night from a factory city I came to the edge of Hell.
The place was foul with cinders and cast-off things, and jagged, half-buried things with shapeless edges, and there was a huge angel with a hammer building in plaster and steel. I wondered what he did in that dreadful place. I hesitated, then asked him what he was building. “We are adding to Hell,” he said, “to keep pace with the times.”
“Don’t be too hard on them,” I said, for I had just come out of a compromising age and a weakening country. The angel did not answer. “It won’t be as bad as the old hell, will it?” I said.
“Worse,” said the angel.
“How can you reconcile it with your conscience as a Minister of Grace,” I said, “to inflict such a punishment?” (They talked like this in the city whence I had come and I could not avoid the habit of it.)
“They have invented a new cheap yeast,” said the angel.
I looked at the legend on the walls of the hell that the angel was building, the words were written in flame, every fifteen seconds they changed their color, “Yeasto, the great new yeast, it builds up body and brain, and something more.”
“They shall look at it forever,” the angel said.
“But they drove a perfectly legitimate trade,” I said, “the law allowed it.”
The angel went on hammering into place the huge steel uprights.
“You are very revengeful,” I said. “Do you never rest from doing this terrible work?”
“I rested one Christmas Day,” the angel said, “and looked and saw little children dying of cancer. I shall go on now until the fires are lit.”
“It is very hard to prove,” I said, “that the yeast is as bad as you think.
“After all,” I said, “they must live.”
And the angel made no answer but went on building his hell.
The Trouble in Leafy Green Street
She went to the idol-shop in Moleshill Street, where the old man mumbles, and said: “I want a god to worship when it is wet.”
The old man reminded her of the heavy penalties that rightly attach to idolatry and, when he had enumerated all, she answered him as was meet: “Give me a god to worship when it is wet.”
And he went to the back places of his shop and sought out and brought her
