“How do you know it?”
“I don’t. I go home.”
“Like a dog?”
“I suppose so. I can’t tell.”
“But do you not unconsciously take note of the sun, and the moss on the north side of the trees, and so guide yourself?”
“No—I may; I am not sure. I only know I can get back, and I go pretty straight. Father says it is instinct.”
“That may be. I have seen guides who could go through a wood without fail, and unerringly take you to camp in the darkest night. They cannot tell how they do it.”
“I never thought much about it,” said Jack.
“It is worth thinking about. You see most instincts are intelligently aided in man. The thing is to keep your instincts and help them with mind; but I fancy you will lose yours as you cease to use them. What you seem to have is like the instinct which brings the salmon back to his own river, the homing pigeon to its own cote, and the cat you may have tried to lose to its own kitchen, miles across the unknown streets of a great city.”
“Can you explain it?”