to school, he would slip away and escape up into the
hills, as happy as a little wild goat. Here was all
the sweet fresh air of heaven, instead of the stuffy
schoolroom. Here were no cruel, clumsy boys, but
all the wild creatures that he loved. Here he could
learn the real things his heart was hungry to know,
not merely words which meant nothing and led to
nowhere.

For hours he would lie perfectly still with his
heels in the air and his chin resting in his hands, as
he watched a spider weaving its web, breathless with
interest to see how the delicate threads were turned
in and out. The gaily painted butterflies, the fat
buzzing bees, the little sharp-tongued green lizards,
he loved to watch them all, but above everything he
loved the birds. Oh, if only he too had wings to
dart like the swallows, and swoop and sail and dart
again! What was the secret power in their wings?
Surely by watching he might learn it. Sometimes
it seemed as if his heart would burst with the longing
to learn that secret. It was always the hidden
reason of things that he desired to know. Much as
he loved the flowers he must pull their petals of, one
by one, to see how each was joined, to wonder at the
dusty pollen, and touch the honey-covered stamens.
Then when the sun began to sink he would turn
sadly homewards, very hungry, with torn clothes and
tired feet, but with a store of sunshine in his heart.