Recollections of my past life rise within me, joys by
the thousand, music and eyes, flowers. There is nothing more glorious than
the soughing of the woods. It is like swinging, rocking--a madness:
Uganda, Antananarivo, Honolulu, Atacama, Venezuela.
But it is all the years, no doubt, that make me so weak, and my nerves
that join in the sounds I hear. I get up and stand by the fire to get over
it; now I think of it, I feel I could talk to the fire a little, make a
speech to the dying fire. I am in a fire-proof house here, and the
acoustic conditions are good. H'm!
Then the cave is darkened; it is the elk-hunter again with his dog.
It begins to freeze as I trudge along homeward to my hut. The frost soon
hardens the ground, moor and heath, making it easy walking. I trudge along
slowly and carelessly, hands in my pockets. There is no hurry now; it
matters little where I am.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wanderers, by Knut Hamsun
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANDERERS ***
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