They blew over vast reaches of forest and plain, these winds, wimpling
the new grass with playful fingers, and whispering in the ear of bird
and bee and flower that spring was come once more.
They came from the west, sweeping over sweet high meadows, over rushing
streams, and down from fair plateaus, and their breath was fresh and
cool with promise to one who faced them, eager in his hope, for they
brought the virgin sweetness of the Land of the Whispering Hills. By
streams, clear as crystal, he passed with a swinging stride, this lean
young man in the buckskins of the forest traveller, over meadows soft
in their green carpets, through woodlands whose flecked sunshine
quivered and shook on the young moss beneath, and ever his face was
lifted to the west with undying hope, with calmness of faith, and that
great joy which is humble in its splendour.
Thus he swung forward all through the pleasant hours of that last day.
Before him, raised against the sky, there loomed the magic Hills
themselves, fair to the eye of man, clothed in the green of blowing
grass and girdled about below with the encroaching forest.
At dusk he set foot upon their swelling slopes, and knew himself to be
near the goal of his heart's desire.
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