Beyond the flame-yard and rising with panting hurt, and falling with undulations, the warm breast of meadows heaved, and the goldenrod swept on with yellowheat; the tender blue wavered; the sumac bled. He looked at his hands. He held them up before his burning eyes, and he found them delicate with fragrant pollen, thin-veined with color. He rose on the sweep of the faun's dream and drifted, a giant butterfly, out the window, on past the enclosed yard, and over the fields of

summer.

And mingled with ecstasy of color; jerked a crazy course among the shimmering white love; and slept on the lips of marigold, and drowned in the honeyed kiss. He splotched his yellow wings with gold; and he ran his keen proboscis deep into the core of cringing violet, and forgetmenot, and buttercup, and daisy, and drove into hysteria the other less violent butterflies. And he was not surprised to note, on a downward sweep in the sun, that his wings were crimson, and that the crimson was mottled with brown.

He took off at a dizzy zigzagging pace after the alluring, the beautiful and dainty lady and drove her into the sun and down to the earth; and she died. He chased all the mournful butterflies away, and those that were slow he slew, and he drank their blood and roamed the love-vine level. Nor was he surprised to note that his wings were brown, and that the brown was mottled with black.

Dashing out of the sunlight he entered the dark magnolias, and mingled with the mistletoe. He swept down upon dark flitting, fluttering shadows that screamed with terror, and screeched with pain. And he slew the bats. Their carcasses fell silently upon the floor of the cave, sucked dry of blood. He watched them float down like shadows. And his wings were black, and the black was marked with drops of blood.

Sated, he flew out of the cavern-out of the darkness. Below him lay fields of color flowers and hovering butterflies, myriad, many. Plummeting to earth, like the sleek marten, or like the deadly hawk, or like the vengeful eagle, he curled up in the sun, and slept. He was wakened, a satyr, by sound of blood-call; by the marshalled armies in his blood that beat against the door of his brain; and he wakened slowly, leisurely. He was startled by the sound of music, and the vision of love. He leapt to his feet, a magnificent animal of lust, and ran down the hillside in search of his golden mate.

The odor-the essence of spring assailed him; of spring ripening into luscious summer, of fruitful, abundant summer, and the sweet intoxication of himself, his mad burning self impelled him at a run down the valleys and up the mountains, zephyr light upon his goat's feet, crushing tender flowers and following the scent.

And following the music until he dispersed all the swarms of butterflies, and scattered the feathers of the birds and smote with anger the bones of the bats, stamped into the earth the fine fur of the bats, and broke with thunderbolt madness into the chaotic self-storm, panting down the steeps and wallowing in the sensuous vales where tired, exhausted, he lay down and slept again.

The final strains of his reverie dwindled, sustained the long long long and last poignant sweet frustration of substance and sense into pleasant sadness into aching sobs into broken denouement into shuddering innuendo into silence, into silence silence.

The music stopped amid the roar of prolonged applause. The voice of the announcer said the entirely unromantic human voice said: "You have heard DeBussy's The Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun." And the fat one's vulgar hulk rose from the floor while he reached with huge ham-like hand for the knob, and he turned the radio off.