I have
drunk full and deep from the cup of creation. The Southern
Cross is no strange sight to my eyes. I have slept in
the desert close to my horse, and I have walked on Lebanon.
I have cruised in the seven seas and seen the white
marvels of ancient cities reflected in the wave of
incredible blueness. But then I was young. When the years
began to pile up, I longed to stake off my horizons, to
flatten out my views. I wanted the simpler, the more
elemental things, things cosmic in their associations,
nearer to the beginning or end of creation. The parrot
that flashed through "nutmeg groves" did not hold out so
much allurement as the simple gray-and-slaty junco. The
things that are unobtrusive and differentiated by shadings
only--grey in grey above all--like our northern woods,
like our sparrows, our wolves--they held a more compelling
attraction than orgies of colour and screams of sound.
So I came home to the north. On days like this, however,
I should like once more to fly out and see the tireless
wave and the unconquerable rock. But I should like to
see them from afar and dimly only--as Moses saw the
promised land.
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