I arise and pass.

After eighty years, having been once like the rest a little vacant-eyed child in his mother’s arms; having thence lived and toiled and enjoyed much hither and thither over the earth; Now being very weary, and day after day and week after week growing more and more weary; all all old interests refusing, for death longing—the old lawyer lies down to sleep.

It is but for an hour or two. Death comes not yet. The leaves still tremble in the evening wind, the clouds in solemn transformation float on, voices of children call in the garden below.

The last few miles, the old familiar country—the well-known roads and garden-lands—yet no glance thereon.

The strange immortal instinct pressing—the veiled figure always in front, beckoning.

* * * * *

Now at this time the creatures of the forest to their lairs retiring await the approach of night; the great mountains stand in awe amid the hush of their own waters; twilight fades and the stars once more appear.

Deep under dead leaves in the wood or buried in the earth, the baby fly, white and unformed—the two dark specks which will be its eyes just appearing—in its oakspangle cradle sleeps. With their mother plaited in a ball of dry grass, warm and soft, the young fieldmice lie quiet, or chirrup nosing for their food. The pools of water are full of creatures that cannot rest; to the starlit surface rising they spread wings and fly forth into the fields of air. In heaven whirled by resistless tradition and necessity descending from God knows when, Jupiter the great planet swims—and swathes itself wondrous in clouds—prophetic.

Heaven bends above, the Earth opens disclosing innumerable births beneath. He lies weary, slumbering for a moment. The pen, the desk, the half-finished letter, are there; the gas makes a slight singing noise overhead.

* * * * *

Solid walls and stones grow transparent and penetrable: the earth and all that is in it fade and recede to make way for the Traveler.