PROSE FANCIES

BY

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

WITH A LITHOGRAPHED PORTRAIT

OF THE AUTHOR BY R. WILSON STEER

LONDON
ELKIN MATHEWS & JOHN LANE
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK
1894

TO
MY DEAR WIFE MY PROSE FOR HER POETRY
IN MEMORY OF TWO HAPPY YEARS
OCTOBER 22, 1891
DECEMBER 6
1893

CONTENTS

NOTE

The reader will, doubtless, feel the greater confidence in the following essays, from the fact that they have already passed their first and second readings through the hands of the editors and subscribers of The Speaker, The Star, The Illustrated London News, and The Sketch. To the several editors of these papers I am indebted for their kind permission to reprint, and I take this opportunity of expressing my thanks to Mr. CLEMENT SHORTER for many other kindnesses. I venture also particularly to thank my friend Mr. T.P. GILL—but for whose kind incitement many of the following 'Fancies' had not been written at all.

PROSE FANCIES

A SPRING MORNING

I

Spring puts the old pipe to his lips and blows a note or two. At the sound, little thrills pass across the wintry meadows. The bushes are dotted with innumerable tiny sparks of green, that will soon set fire to the whole hedgerow; here and there they have gone so far as those little tufts which the children call 'bread and cheese.' A gentle change is coming over the grim avenue of the elms yonder. They won't relent so far as to admit buds, but there is an unmistakable bloom upon them, like the promise of a smile. The rooks have known it for some weeks, and already their Jews' market is in full caw. The more complaisant chestnut dandles its sticky knobs. Soon they will be brussels-sprouts, and then they will shake open their fairy umbrellas. So says a child of my acquaintance. The water-lilies already poke their green scrolls above the surface of the pond; a few buttercups venture into the meadows, but daisies are still precious as asparagus. The air is warm as your love's cheek, golden as canary. It is all a-clink and a-glitter, it trills and chirps on every hand. Somewhere close by, but unseen, a young man is whistling at his work; and, putting your ear to the ground, you shall hear how the earth beneath is alive with a million little beating hearts. C'est l'heure exquise.

Presently along the road comes slowly, and at times erratically, a charming procession.