Yan, though not strong, revelled in deeds of brawn. He would rather
have been Samson than Moses--Hercules than Apollo. All his tastes
inclined him to wild life. Each year when the spring came, he felt the
inborn impulse to up and away. He was stirred through and through when
the first Crow, in early March, came barking over-head. But it fairly
boiled in his blood when the Wild Geese, in long, double, arrow-headed
procession, went clanging northward. He longed to go with them.
Whenever a new bird or beast appeared, he had a singular prickling
feeling up his spine and his back as though he had a mane that was
standing up. This feeling strengthened with his strength.

All of his schoolmates used to say that they "liked" the spring, some
of the girls would even say that they "dearly loved" the spring, but
they could not understand the madness that blazed in Yan's eyes when
springtime really came--the flush of cheek--the shortening breath--the
restless craving for action--the chafing with flashes of rebellion at
school restraints--the overflow of nervous energy--the bloodthirst
in his blood--the hankering to run--to run to the north, when the
springtime tokens bugled to his every sense.

Then the wind and sky and ground were full of thrill. There was
clamour everywhere, but never a word. There was stirring within and
without. There was incentive in the yelping of the Wild Geese; but it
was only tumult, for he could not understand why he was so stirred.
There were voices that he could not hear--messages that he could not
read; all was confusion of tongues. He longed only to get away.

"If only I could get away. If--if--Oh, God!" he stammered in torment