And there are still others, where Buddy collided with the yellow-jacket,
that I find I cannot read at all.
Something lifted for me that day as Buddy and I led off down that fat,
green valley, with the pass farther and farther behind--a weight off my
spirit, a deadly fear of accident, not to myself but to the Family,
which had obsessed me for the last few days. But now I could twist in
my saddle and see them all, ruddy and sound and happy, whistling as they
rode. And I knew that it was all right. It had been good for them and
good for me. It is always good to do a difficult thing. And no one has
ever fought a mountain and won who is not the better for it. The
mountains are not for the weak or the craven, or the feeble of mind or
body.
We went on, to the distant tinkle of the bell on the lead-horse of the
pack-train.
It was that day that "Silent Lawrie" spoke I remember, because he had
said so little before, and because what he said was so well worth
remembering.
"Why can't all this sort of thing be put into music?" he asked. "It _is_
music. Think of it, the drama of it all!"
Then he went on, and this is what "Silent Lawrie" wants to have written.
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