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                               SANCTUARY

                             A BIRD MASQUE


            “_Herkneth these blisful briddes how they singe;
            Ful is mine herte of revel and solas!_”
                                                CHAUCER

[Illustration:

  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_


[Illustration: _February, 1914_]

                                                      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 must 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._




                                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 to 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, colorings, 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 _genres_ 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 now 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.




                        PERSONS OF THE MASQUE[1]
                   _in the order of their appearance_


  QUERCUS, _faun_

  ALWYN, _poet_

  SHY, _naturalist_

  TACITA, _dryad_

  ORNIS, _bird spirit_

  STARK, _plume hunter_


                       PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME

  _Hunter Attendants of Stark_

  _Many species of birds—in human form, garbed symbolically_


                                 SCENE

  _The sylvan glade of a bird sanctuary._

Footnote 1:

  The complete programme of the original production of the masque, as
  first enacted at Meriden, New Hampshire, by members of the Cornish
  Colony and the Meriden Bird Club, is printed in the AFTERWORD of this
  volume.




                              THE PRELUDE


[Illustration:

  THE LITTLE GIRL FALLS INTO REVERIE
]




                              THE PRELUDE

  _Wandering in the quiet of the bird sanctuary, a little girl hears the
     voice of a hermit thrush, and meditates this song_:


                  THE 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.

  _Passing 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._




                               THE MASQUE


[Illustration]




                               THE MASQUE




                                   I


  _Dawn._

  _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._

  _Peeping 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._

                  QUERCUS

  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 _pours 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?

                A VOICE

              [_Outside._]

  A friend.

                  QUERCUS

            A friend to what?

                THE VOICE

  To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.

                  QUERCUS

  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.




                                   II

                            QUERCUS. ALWYN.


              [A YOUNG MAN _enters, pausing in the path_.]


                  THE MAN

  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!

                  QUERCUS

  Now, by Lord Pan!
  The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—
  Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!
  You!—Can it really be?

                    ALWYN

                           It can,
  And _is_—by Pan, our ancient pastor!
  But you, slant shanks, what make _you_ here at dawn?

                  QUERCUS

  Newfangleness! The classic gout
  Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,
  But now they run new errands.

          [_Flourishing his staff._]

                           Lo, the sign
  Of my new office!

                    ALWYN

                New! What may that be?

                  QUERCUS

  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
  And practical care-taker—
  Grand marshal of the martin-house!

                    ALWYN

      [_Pointing at_ QUERCUS’ _staff_.]

                                     Of that?

                  QUERCUS

  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.

                    ALWYN

  _We_—say you? Who are _we_?

                  QUERCUS

  Myself and my lord master.

                    ALWYN

                             And what’s he?

                  QUERCUS

  Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser.
  He is the fellow of all friendless things,
  Wild 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.

                    ALWYN

                               Not even his name?

                  QUERCUS

  Yea, what men call him by;
  And he is like the same.
  Men call him Master Shy.

                    ALWYN

  Ah, Shy, the naturalist.
  Why, he is my good crony. If he wist
  To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.
  How do you serve him?

                  QUERCUS

                        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.

                    ALWYN

  Nay, do you please in all?

                  QUERCUS

  I carry to his call,
  And never yet have earned his censures
  For botch or shirk.

                    ALWYN

  I prithee show me of your handiwork.
  What’s here—this little box
  With paddle wings?

                  QUERCUS

  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.

                    ALWYN

                             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—

                  QUERCUS

                 Hush!

  [_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.

[Illustration:

  “IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?”
]




                                  III

                          SHY. QUERCUS. ALWYN.


                      SHY

      [_Enters, carrying a nest-box._]

  A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.

      [_He greets_ ALWYN.]

  Good morning, friend! How comes it _you_ are caught
  Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,
  Salute the sunrise only in their song.

                    ALWYN

                  [_Smiling._]

  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.

                      SHY

  And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!
  Three 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.

                    ALWYN

        [_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.

                  QUERCUS

  Waiting, my masters!

                    ALWYN

                       Give your pipe to me!

                  QUERCUS

          [_Holding it behind him._]

  Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.

                    ALWYN

  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.]

                      SHY

  This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough
  Of that tall maple. Place it well,
  Like yonder one.

                  QUERCUS

                   Right, master. Now!

                      SHY

  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.

                  QUERCUS

  That cowbird, master,—

                      SHY

                          Did she lay
  Her egg?

                  QUERCUS

           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.

                      SHY

  Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?

                  QUERCUS

  What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?

            [_He nods shrewdly._]

  Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!
  That almost got _you_ in the fix:
  Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,
  And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.

                  [_Grinning._]

  Eh, master, it’s _your_ shoe that pinches!

                      SHY

  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?

                  QUERCUS

  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.

                      SHY

  A proper list!
  What trees—deciduous?

                  QUERCUS

  Box-elder and bird cherry,
  White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.

                    ALWYN

  What make you thus?
  Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?

                      SHY

  Good poet, whist!
  No more mythology.
  Your faun is learning better. Truce!

                    ALWYN

  Most humbly, my apology!

                      SHY

  So, Quercus: and what evergreens?

                  QUERCUS

                                    White spruce,
  Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.

                      SHY

  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.

                  QUERCUS

          [_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._]

[Illustration:

                    ALWYN
]




                                   IV

                              ALWYN. SHY.


                    ALWYN

  Shy—honest friend, your hand once more!

                      SHY

  Heartily! Welcome to this wood.

                    ALWYN

  Do you recall how once we stood
  Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—
  Dryads and poet’s dreams?

                      SHY

                            Yes, I recall
  I wondered at them all.

                    ALWYN

  First—as to-day—you smiled
  Your incredulity of my quaint creed,
  Till soon, in further converse, we agreed
  In 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.

                      SHY

  I will confess
  Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia
  I worship her
  Alone.

                    ALWYN

         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.

                      SHY

  She is, in truth,
  The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.

                    ALWYN

                  [_Eagerly._]

  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?

                      SHY

  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.

                    ALWYN

  Whom do you speak of?

                      SHY

                        One whom the red wine
  Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister
  Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.
  Close 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.”

                    ALWYN

  What is this desecrator’s name?

                      SHY

  Stark, the plume-hunter.

                    ALWYN

                           Surely he dares not
  Track his defenseless game
  Here to this hallowed spot!

                      SHY

  No place is holy to unhallowed minds:
  He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.

                    ALWYN

  Still I have faith
  That Tacita, in her serenity,
  Is mightier than he.

                      SHY

  Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate
  And crushes like a flower.

                    ALWYN

  Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.
  So now, while nature muses in the thrush,
  Here let us sit this hour,
  And meditate
  On Tacita, till meditation shall create
  Its own shy image.—Hush!

        [_They sit upon a log and listen._]




                                   V

                          TACITA. ALWYN. SHY.


  [_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!

                      SHY

  Speak to her—you.

  Alwyn

  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
  Spirit 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._]




                                   VI

                           ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY.


  [_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._]


                    ORNIS

  Ee-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary!

  [_Swaying, she falls to the ground._ ALWYN _and_ SHY _spring toward
     her_.]

                    ALWYN

  Help, Shy! She falls!

                      SHY

                  [_At_ ORNIS’ _side_.]

                  Wing-struck! Here’s blood.

                    ALWYN

                             That shot?

                      SHY

  The gun of Stark.

            [_Seeking to lift her._]

                    Up, birdling! Here is Shy.

                    ORNIS

           [_Droops, moaning._]

  O-rée-o!

                      SHY

           Quick! Bring Quercus.

                    ALWYN

              [_Hastening off._]

                                 In a jot.

                      SHY

  [_Soothingly strokes_ ORNIS’ _arm and shoulder_.]

  So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!

                    ORNIS

              [_Moans dazedly._]

  Ir-re-o! P’tee!

                  QUERCUS

          [_Reëntering with_ ALWYN.]

                  Here, master!

                      SHY

                  [_Pointing._]

                                Water!—There!

                    ALWYN

  The bird bath!

                  QUERCUS

  [_Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to_ SHY.]

                 Coming!

                      SHY

                         Sprinkle.

                  QUERCUS

  [_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!

              [ORNIS _revives_.]

                      SHY

              [_Assisting her._]

  Now, gently!

                    ALWYN

      [_Bending over her, calls low._]

               Ornis!—Sister!

                    ORNIS

                               _Who_ calls? Where
  Am I?

                    ALWYN

        In sanctuary. Have no fear.

                    ORNIS

      [_Looking from one to the other._]

  Ah, me! But what are these?

                      SHY

                              Your brothers, dear.

                    ORNIS

  My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.

                    ALWYN

  Through Tacita you know us now; we can
  Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.

                    ORNIS

      [_Rising in glad wonder._]

                                     At last!—
  At last!

                    ALWYN

           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.

                    ORNIS

  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
  The 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!”

                    ALWYN

                          And you woke
  With us, your brothers—healed.

                    ORNIS

          [_With wonder._]

                                  Oh, have you heard
  What now I spoke?
  And can we answer truly, word for word?

          [_Curiously._]

  Alwyn!

                    ALWYN

         You know my name?

                    ORNIS

  [_Turning eagerly from one to the other._]

                           Shy!

                      SHY

                  [_Smiling._]

                                No mistake!

                    ORNIS

  Quercus!

                  QUERCUS

          [_Skipping with a bow._]

          Your birdship’s faun!

                    ORNIS

          [_Laughing joyously._]

                                Good-morning, brothers!

                    ALWYN

  When have you known us?

                    ORNIS

                          Many an age and long!
  No syllable has bubbled in your song
  But I have blown it first from yonder trees:

                [_To_ SHY.]

  No brooding-place of yours—but _I_ was in the breeze;

                [_To_ QUERCUS.]

  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_.]

  Who’s coming now?

                      SHY

  Still others—our fellow man.

                    ORNIS

  I hear a breaking bough.

                    ALWYN

  Kind hearts and cruel are one clan.

                    ORNIS

  Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.
  Come, brothers, let us look:
  It may be one who needs our friendliness.
  Come with me!

                    ALWYN

              [_Calling off scene._]

                Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.

                  QUERCUS

          [_With excited gestures._]

  Back, ho!

                    ORNIS

      [_Suddenly recoiling with a cry._]

            Ah, save me!

  [_She flies to their protection_. QUERCUS _also scampers back
     fearfully, and hides_.]




                                  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_.]


                    STARK

  Bagged!—Hold off the dogs!

  [_The_ ATTENDANTS _withdraw with the hounds_.]

                    ORNIS

  [_As_ STARK _grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain_.]

  Ee-ó-lo!

                    STARK

           A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing
  Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.

[Illustration:

  “Sir—Here is _No Hunting_”
]

  Madame 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!

                      SHY

                  [_Quietly._]

                                Sir,
  Here is _No Hunting_.

                    STARK

              [_With a laugh._]

                        Pipe that to the frogs!

                      SHY

  This ground is sanctuary.

                    STARK

                            And what’s that?

                      SHY

  A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.

                    STARK

  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._]

          the game is bagged.

                      SHY

                              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?

          [_He points at_ ORNIS.]

                    STARK

                  [_Looking._]

             Where?

                    ALWYN

  Our sister, who stands there
  And dumbly pleads for all her race—
  And ours.

                    STARK

            By Christ in Hades,
  My eyes see nothing but a brace
  Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies
  And show me—no one.

                    ALWYN

                       Look more near.
  Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!

                    ORNIS

          [_Drawing back in dread._]

  O-rée-o!

                    STARK

           I am listening.

                    ALWYN

                           Did you hear
  No voice?

                    STARK

            I heard a bird call from that bough.

                  QUERCUS

    [_Peeping toward_ SHY _from the bushes_.]

  Have at him, master!

                      SHY

                  [_To_ STARK.]

                       Did you spy
  That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back
  Into the bush?

                    STARK

                 I saw
  A stirring in that staghorn sumach,
  And caught a rabbit’s eye.—
  What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!
  Good day to you!

                    ALWYN

                   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?

                    STARK

                            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.

                    ALWYN

                                 Stay, and learn
  What we ourselves have only learned through quiet
  Listening. 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.

                    STARK

  [_Who has listened with half-amused curiosity._]

  Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?

                    ALWYN

  One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.

                      SHY

  Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.

            [QUERCUS _goes out_.]

                    STARK

  Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?
  And may this wonder dawn on my horizon
  If I remain?

                    ALWYN

               Remain—to meditate!

                    STARK

  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!

                    ALWYN

  With loveliness more deep than eyes discover.

                    STARK

  So, ’tis a bargain, then?

                    ALWYN

                            Sit by me here;
  And if your musings cause no fear,
  You shall behold her in her secret dances.

                    STARK

  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_.]

[Illustration]




                                  VIII

              TACITA. ALWYN. ORNIS. STARK. (SHY. QUERCUS.)


                    ALWYN

  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 elusive 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_.]

                    STARK

        [_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.]




                                   IX

                  STARK. ORNIS. (ALWYN. QUERCUS. SHY.)


                    STARK

  What _are_ you?

                    ORNIS

  [_Appealing with half-fearful affection._]

      Brother!—brother!

                    STARK

  [_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!

                    ORNIS

                [_Struggling._]

                   Ee-ó-lee-o!

                      SHY

              [_Extricating her._]

                               Not yet!

                    ALWYN

              [_Seizing_ STARK.]

  Untamed, and still unshamed! Will you destroy
  The wings that raise you? Sister, speak to him!

                    ORNIS

  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.

                    STARK

              [_Dropping his net._]

               Sister?

                    ORNIS

                       Hunt no more
  With lime and net: Your love shall hold me faster;
  For I am Ornis.

                    STARK

                  [_Fascinated._]

                  Ornis!

                    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;
  Yet 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!

                    STARK

      [_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.

                    ORNIS

                                      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.

[Illustration:

  “Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!”
]

                    STARK

          [_Glancing at his gun._]

  Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument
  Of murder here? What black intent
  Clouded my mind with blood?

          [_Flinging it from him._]

  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?

                    ORNIS

  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
  Gaunt 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.

                    ALWYN

              [_Drawing near._]

  And for her sake, so _we_ will love each other.

      [_He takes_ STARK’S _right hand_.]

                      SHY

              [_Taking his left._]

  A greenwood partnership!

                    STARK

          [_Pressing their hands._]

  Thanks!

                      SHY

          [_Whispering to the faun._]

          Quercus, run!

                  QUERCUS

                        I skip,
  I gambol, master. Ha!
  I have a tale to tell to Tacita!

              [_He leaps away._]

                    ORNIS

  [_As_ STARK _tears off his headdress of plumes_.]

  And those—?

                    STARK

               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,
  Who 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.]

                                and these.

                    ALWYN

  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?

                    STARK

                             I swear.

                      SHY

                                      And I.

      [_Enter_ QUERCUS _and_ TACITA.]




                                   X

               TACITA. QUERCUS. STARK. ORNIS. SHY. ALWYN.


                    STARK

              [_To_ ORNIS.]

  Look, sister: friends are coming.
  Now lead us to their shrine close by.

                    ORNIS

  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!

                  QUERCUS

          [_Bounding forward._]

                                    Holá!

                    ALWYN

  [_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_.]

                  QUERCUS

  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!
  Up 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_.]

                    ORNIS

  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_.]


                                 FINIS




                               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 together 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_,

[Illustration:

  Cardinal Bird and Hummingbird
]

composed 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,
  We 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


                                PRELUDE

                        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

                                EPILOGUE

                  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
             SCARLET 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

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            BY PERCY MACKAYE


            _The Canterbury Pilgrims. A Comedy._

            _Jeanne d’Arc. A Tragedy._

            _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._

            _Poems._

            _Uriel, and Other Poems._

            _Lincoln: A Centenary Ode._

            _The Playhouse and the Play. Essays._

            _The Civic Theatre. Essays._


                          _At all booksellers_

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. moved page 2 to end.
 2. Silently corrected typographical errors.
 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sanctuary, by Percy MacKaye

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