And the
bird I listened to, that same solitary plover I had known and admired
from my earliest years, the most graceful of birds, beautiful to see
and hear when it would spring up before my horse with its prolonged
wild bubbling cry of alarm and go away with swift, swallow-like
flight--what intensity and gladness of life was in it, what a
wonderful inherited knowledge in its brain, and what an inexhaustible
vigour in its slender frame to enable it to perform that annual double
journey of upwards of ten thousand miles! What a joy it would be to
live for ages in a world of such fascinating phenomena! If some great
physician, wise beyond all others, infallible, had said to me that all
my doctors had been wrong, that, barring accidents, I had yet fifty
years to live, or forty, or even thirty, I should have worshipped him
and would have counted myself the happiest being on the globe, with so
many autumns and winters and springs and summers to see yet.
With these supernatural moonlight nights I finish the story of that
dark time, albeit the darkness had not yet gone; to have recalled it
and related it briefly as I could once in my life is enough. Let me
now go back to the simile of the lost wretch struggling for life in
the mangrove swamp. The first sense of having set my foot on a firmer
place in that slough of fetid slime, of a wholesome breath of air
blown to me from outside the shadow of the black abhorred forest, was
when I began to experience intervals of relief from physical pain,
when these grew more and more frequent and would extend to entire
days, then to weeks, and for a time I would become oblivious of my
precarious state.
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