"It will bear you aloft
With a pressure so soft
That you hardly shall guess
Whose the gentle caress."
"Hooray!" he cried again.
"It's the kindest of weathers
For our red feathers,
And blows open the way
To the Gardens of Play.
So, fly out with the Wind of the South, my child,
With the wonderful Wind of the South."
"Oh, I love the South Wind already," he shouted, clapping his hands again. "I hope it will blow very, very soon."
"It may be rising even now," answered the governess, leading him to the window. But, as they gazed at the summer landscape lying in the fading light of the sunset, all was still and resting. The air was hushed, the leaves motionless. There was no call just then to flight from among the tree-tops, and he went back into the room disappointed.
"But why can't we escape at once?" he asked again, after he had given his promise to remember all she had told him, and to be extra careful if he ever went out flying alone.
"Jimbo, dear, I've told you before, it's because your body isn't ready for you yet," she answered patiently. "There's hardly any circulation in it, and if you forced your way back now the shock might stop your heart beating altogether. Then you'd be really dead, and escape would be impossible."
The boy sat on the edge of the bed staring intently at her while she spoke. Something clutched at his heart. He felt his Older Self, with its greater knowledge, rising up out of the depths within him. The child struggled with the old soul for possession.
"Have you got any circulation?" he asked abruptly at length. "I mean, has your heart stopped beating?"