It is not my purpose to recount in detail my wanderings the remainder of
this week. Some of it would prove a repetition, and other of it
uninteresting. If my sojourn in the Inferno was not as gruesome as the
hero's of Ithaca, nor filled with majestic horrors like the immortal
Dante's, yet it was undeniably true. One night I climbed the peak thrice
between nightfall and daydawn. The last ascent found me so exhausted
that I lay prone upon the table-like top, and watched the miraculous
mystery of morning. It was the first time I had ever seen it from a
great height, and the impression cannot be put into words. I am tempted
to try--oh! the untold glory of the magical metamorphosis!--but no, I
will withstand the inclination. The result would be akin to that a
three-year-old child would obtain if given the necessary pigments and
told to paint a sunset. There are times when even fools will not rush
in; this is one of them.
Sunday night again as I pen these words. Seven days! Seven aeons! My
watch tells me it is twelve o'clock. As I pause for a moment a sound
floats through my open window. It is not any night bird's trilling, for
I know my singers of the dark, every one. Now it comes plainer. A sort
of whistle, I should say, though it is a kind I have not heard for a
long time. Its impression is fuzzy, as though done carelessly. I have
heard boys whistle so, between their teeth. What is happening without my
door, I wonder? No one bent on mischief, for such do not advertise their
approach. The whistling has stopped. I declare I hear feet, and they
draw nearer. I am not one bit alarmed. I think I prove this by
continuing my task as the unknown footsteps steadily come closer. They
stop. I look up. Arms crossed on my window-sill, head bobbing in
greeting and goat tuft wagging, stands the Satyr. Before I can speak he
loosens this tipsy stave:
"Say, Mr. Rabbit, you're look'n' mighty slim!"
"Yes, by gosh! ben a-spit'n' up phlim!"