Sometimes all our lives, if we
keep our souls young, and see the world as we first saw it with eyes and
heart unsoiled, we hear the murmuring of the Other Self, that Self from
which we separated when we entered this mortal sphere, but which followed
us, invisible yet whispering inspiration to us. But sometimes we only
hear It, our own soul's oracle, while yet our years are few, and we have
not passed that frontier between innocence and experience, reality and
pretence. Pretence it is which drives the Other Self away with wailing on
its lips. Then we hear It cry in the night when, because of the trouble
of life, we cannot sleep; or at the play when we are caught away from
ourselves into another air than ours; when music pours around us like a
soft wind from a garden of pomegranates; or when a child asks a question
which brings us back to the land where everything is so true that it can
be shouted from the tree-tops.
Why was Fleda Druse tempting death in the Carillon Rapids?
She had heard a whisper as she wandered among the pine-trees there at
Manitou, and it said simply the one word, "Now!" She knew that she must
do it; she had driven her canoe out into the resistless current to ride
the Rapids of Carillon. Her Other Self had whispered to her.
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