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the story of an african farm-第31部分
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As man differs from man; so differ these souls' years。 The most material
life is not devoid of them; the story of the most spiritual is told in
them。 And it may chance that some; looking back; see the past cut out
after this fashion:
I。
The year of infancy; where from the shadowy background of forgetfulness
start out pictures of startling clearness; disconnected; but brightly
coloured; and indelibly printed in the mind。 Much that follows fades; but
the colours of those baby…pictures are permanent。
There rises; perhaps; a warm summer's evening; we are seated on the
doorstep; we have yet the taste of the bread and milk in our mouth; and the
red sunset is reflected in our basin。
Then there is a dark night; where; waking with a fear that there is some
great being in the room; we run from our own bed to another; creep close to
some large figure; and are comforted。
Then there is remembrance of the pride when; on some one's shoulder; with
our arms around their head; we ride to see the little pigs; the new little
pigs with their curled tails and tiny snoutswhere do they come from?
Remembrance of delight in the feel and smell of the first orange we ever
see; of sorrow which makes us put up our lip; and cry hard; when one
morning we run out to try and catch the dewdrops; and they melt and wet our
little fingers; of almighty and despairing sorrow when we are lost behind
the kraals; and cannot see the house anywhere。
And then one picture starts out more vividly than any。
There has been a thunderstorm; the ground; as far as the eye can reach; is
covered with white hail; the clouds are gone; and overhead a deep blue sky
is showing; far off a great rainbow rests on the white earth。 We; standing
in a window to look; feel the cool; unspeakably sweet wind blowing in on
us; and a feeling of longing comes over usunutterable longing; we cannot
tell for what。 We are so small; our head only reaches as high as the first
three panes。 We look at the white earth; and the rainbow; and the blue
sky; and oh; we want it; we wantwe do not know what。 We cry as though
our heart was broken。 When one lifts our little body from the window we
cannot tell what ails us。 We run away to play。
So looks the first year。
II。
Now the pictures become continuous and connected。 Material things still
rule; but the spiritual and intellectual take their places。
In the dark night when we are afraid we pray and shut our eyes。 We press
our fingers very hard upon the lids; and see dark spots moving round and
round; and we know they are heads and wings of angels sent to take care of
us; seen dimly in the dark as they move round our bed。 It is very
consoling。
In the day we learn our letters; and are troubled because we cannot see why
k…n…o…w should be know; and p…s…a…l…m psalm。 They tell us it is so because
it is so。 We are not satisfied; we hate to learn; we like better to build
little stone houses。 We can build them as we please; and know the reason
for them。
Other joys too we have incomparably greater then even the building of stone
houses。
We are run through with a shudder of delight when in the red sand we come
on one of those white wax flowers that lie between their two green leaves
flat on the sand。 We hardly dare pick them; but we feel compelled to do
so; and we smell and smell till the delight becomes almost pain。 Afterward
we pull the green leaves softly into pieces to see the silk threads run
across。
Beyond the kopje grow some pale…green; hairy…leaved bushes。 We are so
small; they meet over our head; and we sit among them; and kiss them; and
they love us back; it seems as though they were alive。
One day we sit there and look up at the blue sky; and down at our fat
little knees; and suddenly it strikes us; Who are we? This I; what is it?
We try to look in upon ourselves; and ourself beats back upon ourself。
Then we get up in great fear and run home as hard as we can。 We can't tell
any one what frightened us。 We never quite lose that feeling of self
again。
III。
And then a new time rises。 We are seven years old。 We can read nowread
the Bible。 Best of all we like the story of Elijah in his cave at Horeb;
and the still small voice。
One day; a notable one; we read on the kopje; and discover the fifth
chapter of Matthew; and read it all through。 It is a new gold…mine。 Then
we tuck the Bible under our arm and rushed home。 They didn't know it was
wicked to take your things again if some one took them; wicked to go to
law; wicked to! We are quite breathless when we get to the house; we
tell them we have discovered a chapter they never heard of; we tell them
what it says。 The old wise people tell us they knew all about it。 Our
discovery is a mare's…nest to them; but to us it is very real。 The ten
commandments and the old 〃Thou shalt〃 we have heard about long enough and
don't care about it; but this new law sets us on fire。
We will deny ourself。 Our little wagon that we have made; we give to the
little Kaffers。 We keep quiet when they throw sand at us (feeling; oh; so
happy)。 We conscientiously put the cracked teacup for ourselves at
breakfast; and take the burnt roaster…cake。 We save our money; and buy
threepence of tobacco for the Hottentot maid who calls us names。 We are
exotically virtuous。 At night we are profoundly religious; even the
ticking watch says; 〃Eternity; eternity! hell; hell; hell!〃 and the silence
talks of God; and the things that shall be。
Occasionally; also; unpleasantly shrewd questions begin to be asked by some
one; we know not who; who sits somewhere behind our shoulder。 We get to
know him better afterward。
Now we carry the questions to the grown…up people; and they give us
answers。 We are more or less satisfied for the time。 The grown…up people
are very wise; and they say it was kind of God to make hell; and very
loving of Him to send men there; and besides; he couldn't help Himself; and
they are very wise; we think; so we believe themmore or less。
IV。
Then a new time comes; of which the leading feature is; that the shrewd
questions are asked louder。 We carry them to the grown…up people; they
answer us; and we are not satisfied。
And now between us and the dear old world of the senses the spirit…world
begins to peep in; and wholly clouds it over。 What are the flowers to us?
They are fuel waiting for the great burning。 We look at the walls of the
farmhouse and the matter…of…fact sheep…kraals; with the merry sunshine
playing over all; and do not see it。 But we see a great white throne; and
him that sits on it。 Around Him stand a great multitude that no man can
number; harpers harping with their harps; a thousand times ten thousand;
and thousands of thousands。 How white are their robes; washed in the blood
of the Lamb! And the music rises higher; and rends the vault of heaven
with its unutterable
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