You are tied to no time-table, the slave
of no road, the tributary of no man. If you like the road you follow it; if
you choose the pass that is yours also; if your fancy (and your wind) is
for the mountain tops, then over Great Gable and Scawfell, Robinson and
Helvellyn be your way. Every short cut is for you, and every track is the
path of adventure. The stream that tumbles down the mountain side is your
wine cup. You kneel on the boulders, bend your head, and take such draughts
as only the healthy thirst of the mountains can give. And then, on your way
again singing:--
Bed in the bush with the stars to see.
Bread I dip in the river--
There's the life for a man like me.
There's the life for ever.
What liberty is there like this? You have cut your moorings from the world,
you are far from telegraphs and newspapers and all the frenzies of the life
you have left behind you, you are alone with the lonely hills and the wide
sky and the elemental things that have been from the beginning and will
outlast all the tortured drama of men.
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