THE MAIDEN'S KEY

FRAUENSCHLUSSEL.

THE ancient folk of Allemeine
Were wont with impulse all divine

To name the Primrose, "Maiden's Key."
But note! there lurks a mystery.

The secret how may we unlock?
The puzzle seems the mind to mock.
Nathless it is a simple thing.

The primrose bud unlocks the Spring,
The season's portal. Lo! forth rush
From earth's green bosom, bracken, bush,
The violet and cowslip brown,

Speed swift to weave the maiden's crown,
The pyramid of scarlet flowers,

The sweet embroidery of the bowers.
On warren, chase, and mountain slope
The trees assume their emerald cope,
While hid beneath the verdant dome
The grove-doves murmur: "Spring is come.'
The birds are shrieking from the spray
With joy to fancy: 'tis the May!
They wonder at the opening blade,
The sprouting leaf, their Summer shade,
When, breathing from its tinted plume
The perfume of the wild-rose bloom,
They chant: "Away with Winter cold!
The Maiden's Key unlocks the wold!"
The Maiden's golden key they sing
The primrose, herald of the Spring.
Unveiled is half the mystery,
But for the "Maiden," who is she?
Resplendent empress of the earth,
In day of dole and wintry dearth,
She is the virgin who gave birth
To hope and bliss and hallowed mirth.
Unlocked the bolt and made us free.
She is the maiden with the key.
So sang with impulse all divine
The ancient folk of Allemeine.

W. F. POWER, S.J.

You

A STUDY IN BROWN

OU probably have never heard of Douce Hill. You certainly have never climbed to its summit. Yet it is quite likely you have often seen it, for it is the prominent mountain on the right-hand side of the Long Hill that lies between Kilmacanogue and Roundwood. There are many ways of getting to it, but a small party which left Dublin one day in March to climb this Hill found it most convenient to make Bray its starting point. The early morning was grey, and until the sun had climbed well up in the heavens, we were quite uncertain as to what the weather was going to do. All doubts were dispelled before we left Bray. Then there was plenty of sunlight and the remaining clouds wore no threatening look. Our walk promised to be pleasant on that fine spring morning, but it proved to, be unique in this, that it afforded us a wonderful example of nature's skill in producing most striking effects with poor materials. To-day, Nature was evidently determined to show what she could do with a single colour, brown.

Now, brown is one of the dullest of the colours. Yet the cunning fingers of our Artist knew how to gather and combine the various multiple shades of brown into a composite whole so pleasing that it gladdened like wine. The innumerable browns that teemed on the mountain side on that March morning, harbingers of the richer colours that the summer sun brings forth, announced in calm but triumphant tones the death of winter and the passing of the drab and grey—the funereal hues of Winter that have held the hills so long. The browns told aloud of the throbbing of the multiple forces of life that will soon burst forth with gaudy display. But, just as supreme skill in painting is shewn in using more brilliant hues with sparing hand, so now the marvellous artist, Nature, sets out a matchless scene by simple variations on a single shade of colour. The highly-trained eye of a skilled Parisian modiste will produce more pleasing effects from the harmony of a few shades than the untrained peasant by her garish displays of greens and yellows and reds. As we climbed Douce we saw an enormous extent of land all clad in some tint of brown. The effect was unspeakably agreeable. The shades of colour were innumerable,

and though there was a suspicion of yellow here, of red there, of grey along the sea, and of purple in the distance, brown was the colour that predominated, just as in the sky blue mottled with white-the ideal sky for scenery-held unique dominion.

It was after noon when we reached the summit of Douce. While climbing up I had veered round to the steep south side to escape the cold wind. There I found the sun blazing with uncommon heat, while below me, in the hollows of the hills that had a northern aspect, gleamed the refreshing white of snow. When we finally reached the top we lay exhausted, huddled against the granite outcrop that sheltered us somewhat from the biting north-wester.

When we crept round to get a glimpse of the scenery to the north, we marvelled at what we saw. In the near vicinity lay great slopes of heather-of browns running into red. The heather was awakening. The reddish brown would soon be replaced by fairest green that would be deposed when these hills would fling around them there their imperial purple, and then Wicklow might well challenge Ireland to show anything more lovely. To-day there was presage of all these changes, but there was, as yet, no purple on the hills, save in the soft velvet purple of distance; but it was a field-day for the browns; there they were in their squadrons-nut-browns-light browns-dark browns-coffee browns-russet browns, and here and there, patches of velvet green-the glorious light green of the delicate young grass of early Spring showing through the slashed brown velvet of the heather.

Underneath us there was a wild ravine, where mounds of soft black mould were strewn in profusion; beyond them a gorge opened, through this coursed the stream that would presently go pelting over the rocky fall that makes Powerscourt famous. In front we could see Kippure, which now seemed low and significant for all its inches. Further off still basked the sunlit plain. To the right, also, lay open country; a dull patch of smoke indicated Dublin. There, too, was Howth like an island, and Lambay a mountain-top afloat at sea; and beyond, dim and ghostly in the far distance, the Mourne Mountains, and to their left that strange, mysterious hill so renowned in Irish story, Slieve Gullion, stood out in pyramidal isolation, and recalled some of the famous legends and famous deeds of our heroic past.

The north-wester was biting cold. In a few minutes we were numb, so the feast of beauty beyond War Hill-the moun

tain immediately to the north of us-had to be relinquished, and, not unwillingly, we turned east and south with our backs against the granite to get some shelter from the wind.

Between us and the Sugarloaf there stretched a belt of trees. Many evergreens stood out black against the brown that here, too, was the prevailing tint; the light brown that precedes the lovely cascade of the freshest green of early Spring, the green of the larch. The narrow belt of trees seemed only to accentuate the bareness of the hills all round. What a magnificent chance for the venturesome capitalist. Instead of square miles of barren brown heather, pleasant to the eye in the glorious sunlight, useful only for the innumerable hares and the scattered grouse, there might be forests to the summits of these hills giving healthiest employment to thousands and restoring to these slopes that pleasant mantle of verdure that proved so attractive to the invader in days gone by. Profitable, too, doubtless. Now that the country has been reduced to a desert it may be abandoned. The question, however, is one not for the speculator but for the nation.

Beyond the Sugarloaf and the plain on which was spread the irregular crescent of Roundwood, lay the sea-the unharvested main-truly did it merit the name. We saw a few small boats, but not a single ship upon all its broad waters. It is one of the anomalies of our life upon this island, that with magnificent harbours opening on the wide Atlantic, ideally situated and ideally equipped by Nature for safely holding the marine of the world, we have never become fond of the sea. Our bays and seas serve as playgrounds for the whale and the rolling porpoise. There is no Irish marine. Are there, in all, a dozen Irish steamers worthy of the name? We saw none from the top of Douce to-day, though to the north the sea stretched to Lambay and beyond to where "Slieve Donard silent stands"; to the south to Wicklow, to Arklow, and away to the horizon, where lay a narrow spit of land, that must have been Carnsore. And all the sea was empty.

From our point of vantage we could see more than half the length of Ireland, for there was in the air that peculiar—almost uncanny-transparency that precedes rain. There was on the south practically no limit to vision save the rotundity of the earth. Not so to the south-west and west, where there was a unique mustering of mountain-tops. The mountain ranges rose like waves transverse gaps here and there enabled you to see line after line of hills extending to the lofty ridge runnin

apparently between Mullaghclevaun and Lugnacullia. Even here

These were most probably
No one who has once seen

some very distant peaks protruded. the Blackstairs and Mount Leinster. that sight can ever forget it. Only once before did I see a similar sight. That was from the summit of the Mesenc, around which roll the lesser ranges of the Cevennes in numberless waves.

To-day three, four, five, six, even seven valleys could we see arrayed in parallel lines. In one of these a patch of silver revealed Lough Dan, the only natural sheet of water that met our gaze. The distant peaks were still sprinkled with snow. On the right-almost due west from where we stood-the great characteristic mass of Mullaghclevaun, shaped like half a crater, cut off the view; far away to the south-west lay Lugnacullia, the loftiest of all these hills, while all about innumerable almost similar peaks defied identification. The valleys, too, were all alike. Scarce one but had its blazing fire, for the heather was being burnt. The enormous clouds of smoke was driven by the wind and streaked the scenery for miles.

Had we wished to remain longer on Douce we could not have done so, for the cold was by this time intolerable. A few sandwiches that I had thoughtfully provided myself with were eagerly devoured by the party. I consoled myself by the cheery prospect of warm tea at Luggala. For this spot we now faced due west over the heather. The sun was our compass over this ocean of heather. A winding band of white, the rough military road, was the only sign of civilisation. As far as we could see in any direction there was not even one house, and the view was most extensive. If a fog overtook you here, and you lost your way, starvation would have to be reckoned with. As it turned out, we had twelve more miles to cover before we could get anything to eat, and then we could only get dry bread, and this in a public inn. We rapidly swept down to Luggala. Every hundred yards or so we came across skeletons of hares. The contrast with the east side of Douce was most remarkable. There live hares abounded. Here was a veritable hare cemetery -not a single live one was to be seen.

The mountain, after a bit, proved very marshy, so we rejoiced when we struck the military road at last, just at Bolehorrigan Bridge. Near this we passed within shouting distance of a man. The last one we saw was between Kilmacanogue and Bray, eight miles away. Between Douce and Powerscourt Inn, however, a distance of twelve miles, we met two others; so the country is not utterly unpopulated.