Power was high up—high up. The tops of all those other hills were nearer earth than he. There was nothing between him and the sky. Two or three small birds, black with white tags to their tails, skimmed to and fro overhead and twittered cheerily. Other birds were fluttering and squabbling in the bushes, as though this hill was their nightly bedchamber. Strange and happy thing a bird; able to choose its walks on mountain or in meadow, able at will to breast fierce winds of high places, or pipe a lay in gentle noontide bower. Strange and happy thing a bird to throw care away, clap wings and seek new worlds.
Power was high up—high up, and only these skimming birds between him and the sky. He had left the world behind him when he took in hand the climb; but like a fool he had brought his bag of care slung upon a shoulder. He had forgotten it a minute or two when first he looked from here; but now he found it again, full stuffed to the throat.
How would this struggle end? Was he soon to perish in a tempest of longing and self-hate? Was this thing called love? Did love stop the clock of a man's day, and leave him to wag his hands like a dotard in the chimney corner?...
Look again and again—the idea of ocean stayed with this wide scene. For miles and tens of miles the waters heaped and fell. He had seen the resemblance always, whenever he looked from one of the hilltops, and the sight had pleased before. Now it annoyed. Why so? Easy the answer. Torn sails and a banging rudder—a rage of winds and a lee shore—a frowning night and an unknown port—that was a man's life....
The breeze was strong and cool up here—steady, straight-blowing from the South. It passed across the hill and went on its way. The sun was hurrying westward. Ah, to snatch wings from these skimming birds, and ride with the breeze, or hurry on the heels of the sun as it brought morning to new lands....
The sun was aged and kindly now; the great country was hushed. The birds were at their good-night hymn, the insects accompanied it from the ground. The little furry animals below were leaping from their dens, and stretching limbs in the warmth. Peace everywhere but in him. Fool! there was no peace down there. The birds made glad song as they made supper; but what of the flies they hunted down? And were those little beasts below better off? Somewhere the dingo yawned; and the python waited at the waterhole. They might not all return in the morning. What was happening to the tiny things which found a world in the grasses and under the stones? Peace? It was like some fair face from which you tore the loveliness to discover the skull behind....
The little black birds had flown away leaving him alone there. The other birds in the bushes had given up their squabbles. In a minute the sun would touch the horizon, and the sky would drink of his last glances. There would be a brief darkening before the stars leapt into their places. But he sat on, unready of purpose....
Why had he chosen to war with great forces? What was he better than a herder of cattle, with few thoughts beyond the needs of the day? Such terrors were gathered against him as might have assailed a prophet of olden time, scowling at the mouth of his cavern.
There was a soul in the body, or why did he deny the pleadings of the body? There was a soul in each body which endured while its house rusted, a light burning steadily in a chamber While a storm outside beat and aged the walls. Yet he could not deny the body to aid the soul.