But the little
bird plunges through the high gulfs of air and flies like an arrow to
the selfsame spot where it lived before it last went off on the wild
quest over shadowy continents and booming seas. "Hereditary instinct,"
says the scientific man. Exactly so; and, if the swallow unerringly
traverses the line crossed by its ancestors, even though the old land
has long been whelmed in steep-down gulfs of the sea, does not that show
us something? Does it, or does it not, make my saying about the soul
seem reasonable?
I have followed the swallows, but the fieldfares and the buntings must
also go soon. They will make their way South also, though some may go in
leisurely fashion to catch the glorious burst of spring in Siberia. I
have been grievously puzzled and partly delighted by Mr. Seebohm's
account of the birds' pilgrimage, and it has given me hours of thought.
We dwell amid mystery, and, as the leaves redden year by year, here
recurs one of the chiefest mysteries that ever perplexed the soul of
man. Indeed, we are shadowed around with mystery and there is not one
red leaf whirled by the wind among those moaning woods which does not
represent a miracle.
We cannot fly from these shores, but our joys come each in its day.
Pages:
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412