THE
MESSENGER COPYRIGHT
1020
BY J. HARRIS
FEBRUARY,
WELSH
1929
No. 3
THE DIVINE LADY WHO WEAVES MARY
LUCILLE
SAUNDERS
HE blunt prow of the river-boat crept through the rapidly darkening waters of the North River. The panting coolies, exhausted by the turbulent passage through the rapids, laid their glistening bodies down on the wet deck for a brief period of rest. The riverboat, thus left to its own choosing, aimlessly wandered down the river. The dim, blue mountains receded in the swiftly approaching mists. The cool, damp breezes gently fanned the heavy sails of the boats. Sensual night seduced the twittering birds and the buzzing dragonflies into languorous silences, broken only by the chanting of the boatmen as they resumed their duty and the crackle of the waves against the relentless bulk of the advancing junk. On the uneven and treacherous banks of this fateful river were the elusive shadows of the peasant maidens trying to thread their needles of good-fortune with the threads of their future. Here the joyous laughter of the successful blended with the outbursts of those not so fortunate. Through the enveloping, softly falling rain, the jewel notes of the flute faintly accompanied the fresh, young voice of the dusky dancing girl as she sang, glittering head pillowed on a thousand cushions.
T
"Over the chain of giant peaks, The great, reel sun goes down, And in the stealthy floods of night The distant valleys drown. "Yon moon that cleaves the gloomy pines Has freshness in her train. Low wind, faint stream, and waterfall Haunt me with their refrain." The eager voice of the son broke the enchantment. "Father, why are those maidens trying so hard to thread their needles?" "My son," answered the father patiently. "It is the time of the