CHAPTER XV. — A CATASTROPHE.
“You disparage these scenes,” said Stevens, after several moments had been given to the survey of that before him, “and yet you have drawn your inspiration from them—the fresh food which stimulates poetry and strengthens enthusiasm. Here you learned to be contemplative; and here, in solitude, was your genius nursed. Do not be ungrateful, Margaret—you owe to these very scenes all that you are, and all that you may become.”
“Stay! before I answer. Do you see yon bird?”
“Where?”
“In the west—there!” she pointed with her fingers, catching his wrist unconsciously, at the same time, with the other hand, as if more certainly to direct his gaze.
“I see it—what bird is it?”
“An eagle! See how it soars and swings; effortless, as if supported by some external power!”
“Indeed—it seems small for an eagle.”
“It is one nevertheless! There are thousands of them that roost among the hills in that quarter. I know the place thoroughly. The heights are the greatest that we have in the surrounding country. The distance from this spot is about five miles. He, no doubt, has some fish, or bird now within his talons, with which to feed his young. He will feed them, and they will grow strong, and will finally use their own wings. Shall he continue to feed them after that? Must they never seek their own food?”
“Surely they must.”