The Wisdom of Oscar Wilde by the Wisdom of Page A

Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer came running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
    All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
    “But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
    “We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”
    “You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant. But the children said they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
    Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he used to say.
    Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said, “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”
    One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
    Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
    Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
    “Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”
    “Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”
    “Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
    And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden; to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”
    And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

A N A PPRECIATION OF THE Y OUNG W. B. Y EATS
    An abridgment of “Three New Poets,” which originally
appeared in Pall Mall Gazette, July 12, 1889. Reprinted from
Reviews (London: Methuen, 1908; reprinted London:
Dawsons of Pall Mall, 1969), pp. 523-25
    B OOKS of poetry by young writers are usually promissory notes that are never met. Now and then, however, one comes across a volume that is so far above the average that one can hardly resist the fascinating temptation of recklessly prophesying a fine future for its author. Such a book Mr. Yeats’s Wanderings of Oisin certainly is. Here we find nobility of treatment and nobility of subject matter, delicacy of poetic instinct and richness off imaginative resource. Unequal and uneven much of the work must be admitted to be. Mr. Yeats does not