The
point is obvious. Do not attempt a thing unless you are sure of
yourself; but do not relinquish it merely because some one else is not
sure of you.
The best way to learn is with a bathing-suit. Keep near shore, and try
everything. Don't attempt the real thing until your handling in a heavy
sea has become as instinctive as snap-shooting or the steps of dancing.
Remain on the hither side of caution when you start out. Act at first
as though every wavelet would surely swamp you. Extend the scope of
your operations very gradually, until you know just what you can do.
_Never_ get careless. Never take any _real_ chances. That's
all.
VIII.
THE STRANDED STRANGERS.
As we progressed, the country grew more and more solemnly aloof. In the
Southland is a certain appearance of mobility, lent by the deciduous
trees, the warm sun, the intimate nooks in which grow the commoner
homely weeds and flowers, the abundance of bees and musical insects,
the childhood familiarity of the well-known birds, even the pleasantly
fickle aspects of the skies. But the North wraps itself in a mantle of
awe. Great hills rest not so much in the stillness of sleep as in the
calm of a mighty comprehension. The pines, rank after rank, file after
file, are always trooping somewhere, up the slope, to pause at the
crest before descending on the other side into the unknown. Bodies of
water exactly of the size, shape, and general appearance we are
accustomed to see dotted with pleasure craft and bordered with wharves,
summer cottages, pavilions, and hotels, accentuate by that very fact a
solitude that harbours only a pair of weirdly laughing loons.
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