Empty Land in the Downs

Where did everyone go?

That might be a tad dramatic, but take a look at the photo below.

The teensy house in the distance is the original Chez Jameson, and it abuts Glengarry. Next to it is a warren dubbed the Bachelor's Hole, so the land is, in fact, occupied. But next to it is an enormous lot - it extends all the way to the Hatpins location in the Downs - that was once the home to Miss 3Ring Binder (if I recall correctly), and it is empty. Across the way, one empty lot once held Miss Easy Spirt's very tall tree house. Next to it was once the Canvas and Quill Tea Room, now gone.

Empty spaces make me sad, but they also make me a little nervous that people are moving on from Caledon. Hey, everyone, the Downs is a nice spot! With nice neighbors!

I (Heart) New York

I love New York City. Really I do. Though I can't imagine living there, I enjoy visiting to see and experience the historic sites, the neighborhoods, the architecture, the shopping, the bars, the food,... Here are a few highlights:

I'm usually in New York when the weather is ghastly. It's either mid-summer, and I run for the air-conditioned comfort of a museum or bar or other civilized spot; or it's mid-winter, and I run for the heated comfort of...well, a museum or bar or other civilized spot. Last year I was there just after several inches of snow. Back in the 90s, I left town as a snowstorm started...and didn't let up for two days, ultimately dumping about two feet of snow on Washington, DC. This past weekend, however, had lovely weather, with highs in the high 60s and generally clear skies. Luverly. Thus I was able to see the East Village, in all its seedy glory, for the first time.

One stop was at a small bar called Angel's Share, set behind a sushi restaurant on the second floor of a row of houses on Stuyvesant Street. One has to know it's there: the entrance is to the right in the photograph below, beneath the sign reading "Village Yokocho," which I assume is the name of the sushi restaurant. Once in the boisterous eatery, a discreet sign is the only indication that the quiet bar lies beyond. The bar (seen below beyond the three curtained windows) is small and has a series of rules that indicate they are serious about keeping down the noise level: no groups larger than six, no drinking standing up - if there isn't a seat at the bar or at a table, you wait - and so on. I had a concoction called a "Take Five," which I suppose was Brubeck smoky, as it involved Scotch whisky and sake.

At the next table were three young ladies right out of Sex and the City. One was getting married, while a second was pregnant, having only recently dumped her long-term boyfriend and taken up with another. One extolled the virtues of an apartment building - she described various amenities - that was "only" $2700 per month. I have a mortgage substantially less than that, and I'll eventually own the place outright. Lest any readers think I was excessively nosy, the average New York City establishment places about four inches between tables, just enough to squeeze in sideways.

Sunday was so nice that we decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. Along with half of both boroughs, apparently. The views are spectacular, and the bridge itself is a marvel.

Below, Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge:

Getting to see the substantial amount of rust on the steel girders was not reassuring, however.

Below, Columbus Circle from inside the Time Warner Building, with Central Park and the Midtown East/Upper East Side skyscrapers in the background:

I like writing instruments and paper products, so one of my pilgrimages in the city is Fountain Pen Hospital, on Warren Street just a block or so from City Hall. (Art Brown's, near Times Square, is another favorite.) The first time I was there, the brusque New York manner of the owners intimidated me, but, over time, I learned that these guys know their pens and like happy customers. (I've also learned to be less intimidated. So there.)

Just because something is tourist-y doesn't mean it shouldn't be seen. In previous years, I've been to the top of the Empire State Building and the top of Rockefellar Center. (I bailed out on the World Trade Center in early September 2001 because the line was too long.) This year, the National Park Service re-opened the crown of the Statue of Liberty for the first time since 2001. Only 10 at a time, in quarter-hour increments, are allowed up the spiral staircase and into the crown. (Advance reservations are a must.) We braved the hordes on the ferry, and were rewarded with spectacular views of the statue and of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and New Jersey.

Below, the interior of the statue. The spiral staircases - one going up, the other down - were a tight fit. The park service has an EMT at the top of the pedestal, on call, just in case.

The next stop on the ferry is Ellis Island. I'll confess we didn't spend much time there, but it's an impressive sight. The photograph below is of Immigrants' Hall; one can only imagine thousands of immigrants at a time, each waiting his or her turn to be processed, having little money and little or no understanding of English. (Mine at least had an understanding of English, or at least the variant they spoke north of Hadrian's Wall.) Those folk had courage, and not a little desperation. (The exhibit noted that the passengers not in steerage went through Customs and Immigration aboard ship, and never had to mingle with the unwashed masses on Ellis Island. Call it unfair all you like, but it's good to be rich.)

While having a drink before dinner at the Plaza Hotel's Oak Room Bar - at truly breathtaking prices, I might add - we noticed a couple who entered and were seated at a booth. "That looks an awful lot like..." "John Kerry?" "Yes, that's what I was going to say." After some time, we concluded that, yes, it was the senior senator from Massachusetts, along with his wife, the $800 million heiress to the Heinz fortune. (Remember, it's good to be rich.) No entourage, although I did note the presence of three beefy guys in suits at the opposite end of the bar. One woman went over and said something; I can only assume it was not, "Cheez Whiz, John. If you had said you like your cheesesteak with Whiz, and not Swiss, for God's sake, you would be here with your Secret Service detail." Anyway, I've long thought that it's a little tacky to interrupt someone eating dinner just because you happen to recognize him.

It took four days, and only minutes from heading back to the airport to leave town, but Guinness was obtained, and a good one, too, at famed bar P. J. Clarke's. Though now partly owned by Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, it still exudes 19th century charm. And they pour a lovely Guinness.

Timestream, Part 3

***

The asylum was filled with shouts and cries, both eerie and plaintive. Nurses in starched white uniforms moved apace at the direction of doctors in long white laboratory coats. Odors mingled: the antiseptic tang of alcohol, perspiration, urine, and fear. “If I had to stay here any length of time, I would go mad,” I told Roland. He placed a steadying hand on my arm.

“We’re here to see Miss Katherine Jameson,” I announced to the matron at the desk. Behind her were – not to mince words – cages where the inmates sat, stood, slept, screamed, or cried, as they saw fit.

She did not look up. “Are you both kin?”

“I am her sister. This is our friend, Mr. Roland Luminos.”

“Kin only.”

“But –”

“Kin only.”

“Worry not, my dear girl. I shall content myself by sitting in this rather austere waiting area and perusing the latest news of the atrocity that has the townspeople so agitated.”

After signing some paperwork, the matron led me through a set of solid doors with sturdy locks, down a corridor, and into a small cell. The walls were heavily padded, and nothing sharp was inside the room, not even on the furniture, which consisted of a stained mattress on which lay a single bedsheet. On the mattress sat Kathy, staring blankly at the far wall, her hair a wild tangle.

At the sound of the door lock tumbling open, Kathy turned around. Her face contained no trace of makeup, and its pallor gave her the appearance of a ghost. For a moment it appeared she did not recognize me, or could not decide whether I was human or apparition, then a broad smile formed and she threw her arms around me.


“Rhianon! Bless me, you came!”

“Of course I came, silly. As did Roland, though he was not allowed to see you, and is waiting outside the secure area. Now, in the name of the Guvnah, tell me what is going on? Are you ill?”

Her grin widened. “Not any longer! Please, please, Rhianon, get me out of here.”

I looked at the matron, who shook her head. “Only Doctor Steinwald can authorize release of a patient involuntarily committed. Her chart says he wants two more days of observation, at the very least.” Kathy blanched.

“May I stay here, and keep my sister company?”

“Until visitors’ hours are over, at eight p.m. That’s a little more than two hours from now. I have to lock you in here. If she becomes violent –”

“I’ll give her a good crack on the head, just as I did when we were younger.”

Matron did not look amused. “If she becomes violent, call for one of the guards.” She left, locking the door behind her.

I looked directly at Kathy and crossed my arms. “Now, do tell how you managed to find yourself in this situation.”

“It’s like this…”

Veterans' Day

To quote the U.S. Veterans Administration,

In November 1919, President Wilson proclaimed November 11 as the first commemoration of Armistice Day with the following words: "To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations…"

An Act (52 Stat. 351; 5 U. S. Code, Sec. 87a) approved May 13, 1938, made the 11th of November in each year a legal holiday—a day to be dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as "Armistice Day." Armistice Day was primarily a day set aside to honor veterans of World War I, but in 1954, after World War II had required the greatest mobilization of soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen in the Nation’s history; after American forces had fought aggression in Korea, the 83rd Congress, at the urging of the veterans service organizations, amended the Act of 1938 by striking out the word "Armistice" and inserting in its place the word "Veterans." With the approval of this legislation (Public Law 380) on June 1, 1954, November 11th became a day to honor American veterans of all wars.

Thank you to all who serve and have honorably served the United States armed forces. As the sign says, "Freedom is not free."

Lest I show too much national bias, I hasten to add that Armistice Day, or Remembrance Day, is observed around the world, and even in our little corner of the world. The photograph below is of a cenotaph in South End, courtesy of the Whybrows.

Not directly relevant, but close enough to the point, the photograph below is mine, taken of a decorative blob that had been part of the World Trade Center, survived in its current damaged form, and is now in New York City's Battery Park as a reminder of how dangerous the world can be.

Timestream, Part 2

***

“Thank God someone came for her.” The naval man looked shocked to see us. Commodore Tom Billings was indeed an “old guy,” though some of his weathered look was no doubt from his years at sea. He had a shock of white hair and a white beard. I could see when he stood to shake hands that his frame was showing the beginnings of a belly. Billings wore a brightly-colored naval uniform with Commodore’s insignia. The jacket had brass buttons that were so polished that they reflected the afternoon sunlight. His office had displayed a dozen or so finely-crafted models of naval vessels, some of which seemed to be of completely unfamiliar designs. Roland’s eyes widened as he saw them.

“You know where my sister is, sir?”

He nodded grimly. “Oh yes. She’s been involuntarily confined to the local Sanitarium for a few days now. I tried to see her, but I was told family only. I couldn’t even get the staff to ask her who to contact.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t say. As best I can piece together, she was in the police station, talking to one of the guards, when she started screaming and throwing a fit. They had to give her a shot to calm her down, then they took her to the women’s ward at the Sanitarium. I only found out because she had my card on her.”

“How did Kathy come to know you?”

He paused for a moment before answering. “Miss Jameson and I go way back.”

“In Oceania?” This was where Kathy lived before coming to Caledon.

The pause was even longer this time. He nodded. “I needed some help, and I thought of her. You see, my nephew, Jason, lives here. He’s a good lad, but a little headstrong, as young people sometimes are. I’m sure you heard of the murder we had?”

“Yes. Only to the extent that we understand the reward for finding the killer is why the town is so crowded.”

“Uh-huh. And the damnable thing is that Jason might be the leading suspect. Unless someone found the real killer, I was afraid Jason would seem a good enough candidate that the police wouldn’t look too hard. And I certainly don’t trust the reward-hunting yahoos in town to get it right. Your sister had some…unique talents when I knew her that made me think she could uncover the right stones.”

“Hmm.” I wondered why she hadn’t asked me for help. I had some prior success at assisting the police in Caledon. Then again, the Commodore was himself not a model of open communication.

“Did she find anything that might have helped your nephew?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to talk with her before her…breakdown.”

I rose. “Thank you, Commodore. I appreciate your time. Would you point us toward the Sanitarium?” He gave me detailed directions.

Roland was examining one of the model ships and muttering to himself. “Hmm, yes, I see. Reduce the coefficient of drag just so. Fascinating. And the artillery! Amazing!”

“Come, Roland, let us see if Sister has completely lost her mind.”

Timestream, Part 1

[The usual mishmash of mystery, weird science, and adventure tale, in several parts. I hope you enjoy it, Dear Reader - RJ]

Imagine that we share our reality with many others, both geographical and temporal. As we move inexorably from one day to the next, as on a mechanical escalator, so, too, are other times moving on their own escalators. Those metaphorical devices do not always move at the same speed relative to one another. Time slips and slides. In the gaps, one can pass through…if one knows the way. But beware, traveler: fifty years in the future may not be fifty years in your future. And customs may be very strange indeed…

***

I opened the front door and stepped into the darkened hallway. Turning on a lamp, I called out, “Anybody home?” but received no reply; indeed, the house had the feel of emptiness.

This was odd, because I had been detained on an interview for a story, and expected my sister to have arrived well before me. A small notecard was on the side table near the entrance. Have been asked to conduct a small investigation out of town. May be several days before I return. Will contact if possible. Kathy. I found this to be highly unusual, but I took the note at face value, despite a certain amount of unease.

A week passed, and my unease grew. It wasn’t like her to be gone this long; certainly not without a telegram or letter to tell me where she was. Had something happened: could she be hurt, and unable to contact me? I recalled her escapade with the Goreans, and the mishap that resulted in an inadvertent stay in the Miskatonic Valley. The more I thought about it, the more I became determined to track her down.

As Kathy had left no clue regarding the nature of “small investigation,” much less its location (outside of the precise movements in her note), this was going to take some time. I stopped at her favorite pub, asked questions of her favorite seamstress, tracked down friends, all to no avail. Finally, it occurred to me to check with Mr. Daniels at the Downs airfield whether Kathy filed a flight plan. Indeed she had – for a land called Octoberville, which was unfamiliar to me, and to Mr. Daniels as well. “She left very specific notes about how to reach it,” he told me, and handed me several sheets of paper in my sister’s very precise handwriting. I confess I had no idea why one would travel in the manner indicated, but I thanked Mr. Daniels and pocketed the notes.

I had my airship taken out of storage and loaded some supplies. At the last moment, I thought that I needed some assistance, particularly if Kathy required medical attention. I asked my talented, if somewhat eccentric and highly deaf, friend, Mr. Roland Luminos, to accompany me.

“An airship? Oh dear me, bless you, young lady, I haven’t been on an airship in many years. My stomach, you know. Hasn’t been the same since that incident in ’68 when…”

“Yes, Roland, I recall the story. Let me assure you that progress has marched on since then, and that my ship is much steadier in the sky than what you are used to.”

“Quite so. Well then, let me grab my bowler and my second-best walking stick and we can be on our way.”

We fought a tremendous lag storm as we neared the city, and Roland, true to his word, found that his stomach did not care for the buffeting the ship took, though he at least had the presence of mind to be sick over the side. Eventually, we made it to the air dock and left the ship in the care of a shady-looking man wearing denim trousers and a tight undershirt with lettering on it. He eyed Roland’s long coat and my walking dress suspiciously.

“I say, this place is utterly mobbed!” said Roland, working his way through the crowd. I agreed, but my reply was lost in the din.

We entered the police station and approached the matron on duty. “How may I help you?” she asked, spitting out the words so rapidly that I heard “HowmayIhelpyou” in a foreign dialect.

“Hello – er, Sergeant, is it? My name is Rhianon Jameson, and this is my companion, Mr. Roland Luminos. We are searching for my sister, Kathy Jameson, and have reason to believe she is in this city, or was, as of a few days prior.” I showed the woman a daguerreotype of Kathy.

“Neverheardofher. Next!”

I stood my ground. “Wait! My sister is missing; are you not the one to whom I should be reporting? I must insist that you start an investigation!”

She looked past us, and repeated, “Next!” Looking at me, she said, “Nuthin’ I can do for you. Be on your way before I arrest you for loitering.”

“I say!” exclaimed Roland. “That’s not very sporting of you.” I tugged on his sleeve so he would move over. The last thing we needed was to languish in this foreign jail and be unable to locate Kathy.

“Don’t mind her,” said a thin man with purple hair standing straight up in short spikes. He was perched at the edge of a desk and was cleaning his nails with a small knife. “As you can see, they’re a little busy today.”

“A little bitty toady?” Roland said, puzzled.

“What has brought all these people to your town?” I asked.

He shifted his weight forward and peered at me. “You don’t know? Well, I can tell from the way you’re dressed and the funny way you talk that you’re not from around here. Well, we had ourselves a nasty little murder, and the town selectmen made the mistake of offering a tidy reward to anyone who could find the killer. Jobs being a little scarce around these parts, that reward brought every idiot in three counties digging through this town.”

Roland cupped an ear. “Digging in his gown? That’s dashed unsporting, really.”

We ignored him. I showed the man Kathy’s picture. “Have you seen this woman?”

He nodded. “Oh yeah. She kinda sticks out, right? That flaming red hair and that funny way she dresses. I’ve seen her around, usually with Commodore Billings.” I looked blankly at the name. “Oh right, you don’t know anyone. The Commodore is pretty famous here. He came from some foreign place to run our little navy. He’s an old guy now – even older than you.” This last comment was directed at Roland, who for once heard the entire remark correctly and sputtered a bit.

“Do you know where we might find the Commodore?”

“He lives in a big place about a mile out o’ town, but he’s often in his office at the naval yard.”
We thanked him, and were almost on our way when I asked, “It was fortuitous that we met you here. What brought you to the police station just now?”

He waved a hand near the desk. “I’m just waiting to be processed. I’m in the business of redistributin’ the wealth in this town. It’s a profession the law don’t take very kindly to.”

“You are a thief then, sir?” Roland asked.

“That’s a real unkind way of putting it. Anyway, they’re real busy today, so they asked me to wait a while until they could book me. It’s no big deal. I had nothing better to do today anyway.”

[To be continued...]

The Mansion at Kintyre

Mr. Planter Leitner kindly invited me to look inside the "summer cottage" in Kintyre - I refer to it as the mansion, as it dwarfs my tiny cottages in the Downs - so I took him up on the offer.

My first stop was the Shakespere Room, dedicated to the Bard of Avon. As unladylike as it is, I could not stop from helping myself to a cigar from the box and *cough* puffing on it *cough* as I perused the room. Below, a portrait of famed English stage producer David Garrick and a putative death mask of Mr. Shakespeare.


The shelves are filled with works by and about Shakespeare and his plays. This includes plays wrongly attributed to Shakespeare as of 1664, altered versions of plays, and a 19th century view of women in Shakespeare's works. Hmm, I may have to pull that one from the shelf.


As I made my way to the other wing of the mansion, I must have brushed against a hidden mechanism that revealed a passageway to an underground chamber. This must have been what Mr. Leitner meant in his reference to "Giordano's basement"! I looked at the art on the walls, but, sadly, I left my lens cap on when I took pictures down there.

I rectified this situation when I returned to the main floor and entered the 1878 Room. This library contains works and ephemera (such as the portrait of President Rutherford Hayes that may be seen to the left in the picture below) available as of that date.


Shelves in this room are labeled: "Deadwood and the Dakotas," "Controversial Issues" (which, at the moment, means "slavery"), "Literature," "Social Sciences," "Religion," "The West," "U.S. History and Government," "Matters, Manners, and Philosophy," and, um, "Erotica."

Purely in the interest of research and the advancement of Knowledge - the things I do for you, Gentle Reader - I pulled a recent volume from the latter shelves. It was entitled The Romance of Lust, or Early Experiences. As that great font of human knowledge, Wikipedia, relates, this book was published anonymously in four volumes between 1873 and 1876.

I fanned myself profusely while scanning the book. "The novel is told in first person....Charlie [Roberts] possesses...seemingly insatiable sexual appetite." I spent the next two hours with the book - again, all in the name of Science, of course. I shall not detail the sordid perversions described therein, only noting that this book should not be seen by the faint of heart!

Whither the Wind Shall Take Me

My typist has decided that a change of scenery might be a good idea, so I will be boarding a large airship today, and therefore out of Aetherwave contact with all of you fine people for several days. If everyone behaves, I may have pictures. Or was that supposed to be my threat? Hmm.

In any event, I hope to have enough to entertain you in my absence. Starting two days from now, Blogger willing, is the first part of a new tale...one I have not yet finished, so let us hope everything works out all right.

(Oh, that? Never mind that picture. No, I'm not the Jameson in peril this time around...)

Tanglewood - Trees and Tinyville

My journy through the wild lands of Caledon continued in Tanglewood. Like Kittiwickshire, it is home to many tiny folk and many large trees, creating a lush canopy. Flying over the area, one can scarecely believe anyone has set foot in it for hundreds of years.

But settle here they have. The area is almost entirely residential, a tranquil refuge. Below, Ziskey Grove and, beyond it, mostly covered by trees, is the Vicerene's retreat (the mountain in the background is Lionsgate, and is connected to the rustic house in Tanglewood).


In central Tanglewood lies Moody Pond, where a tiny sailboat waits to be launched.


Near the eastern border is a new addition, the Tanglewood Infirmary. Given the way Caledonians are always getting into scrapes, one can never have too many places to get patched up!

This peaceful spot, complete with cow, is Belgar Grove, a spot that begs one to stop and look for a while. A short distance away is the Caledon Library special collections building. While looking for a good angle for a photograph of the building, I met a former neighbor from the Downs, Miss Sophie Zuta, who now has a cottage in Tanglewood, Fae Hollow (look for the giant mushrooms). Miss Zuta and I had a lovely chat beneath the towering trees.

The entire western side of the area is taken up by Tinyville, with a variety of buildings for the wee folk, including the Tinyville branch of the library. At the far end of Tinyville lies Toad Hall (home of Mr. Toad, from Wind in the Willows fame) and, beyond that, the Wild Wood, which will also be known to readers of Kenneth Grahame book.

After this visit, I dislike the idea of heading back to civilization, but duty calls.

New England in Autumn

When the leaves turn to fire and the winds come from Canada, the air in New England turns crisp and clear. The turgid air of summer is gone, as are the summer crowds. The lighthouse still flashes its warnings, but few pleasure craft remain to take heed I walk across the empty beaches, through the quiet forests, through the town square, peering through large panes ofr glass at signs advertising end-of-season discounts.


The shop signs rattle in the breeze. I sit at an empty table outside the cafe and sip cocoa, steam rising around my head as I lift the mug to my lips.


This is not the cold of winter, when the Atlantic foams and roars, bringing the kind of bone-numbing chill that can be eased only by sitting before a roaring fire, sipping a peated whisky or old cognac. It is a gentle touch of cold, a harbinger of the season to come.


For now, the harvest is over, the tourists have gone, the shutters have been placed on the summer homes, and there is time to be alone.

"Autumn," by Thomas Hood.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;--
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one, And
Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?--Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,--
The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?--
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;--
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,--and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,--
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!