It
was Whymper, the conqueror of the Matterhorn--Whymper grown old, standing
there in the evening light and gazing on the mighty rock that he had
vanquished in his prime. His climbing days were done, and he sought no more
victories on the mountains. He had had his day and was content to stand
afar off, alone with his memories, leaving the joy of battle to the young
and the ardent. There was not one of those memories that he would be
without--save, of course, that terrible experience in the hour of his
victory over the Matterhorn. But had you asked him if he was still avid for
those topless grandeurs and starry majesties he would have said, "It is
enough."
TU-WHIT, TU-WHOO!
There are two voices that are most familiar to me on this hillside. One is
the voice of the day, the other of the night. Throughout the day the robin
sings his song with unflagging spirit. It is not a very brilliant song, but
it is indomitably cheerful. Wet or fine, warm or cold, it goes on through
the November day from sunrise to sunset.
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