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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"


'Oh, to feel the Wind grow strong
Where the Trail leaps down.
I could never learn the way
And wisdom of the town.
'Where the hill heads split the Tide
Of green and living air
I would press Adventure hard
To her deepest lair.'

"The last verse is the best of all," he said thoughtfully. "It has
been my litany ever since I first read it:
"'I would let the world's rebuke
Like a wind go by,
With my naked soul laid bare
To the naked Sky.'

"And here you are," he murmured, "hotfooting it back to where the
world's rebuke is always in evidence, always ready to sting you like a
hot iron if you should chance to transgress one of its petty-larceny
dictums. Well, you'll soon be there. Can you see a glint of blue away
down there? No? Take the glasses."
She adjusted the binoculars and peered westward from the great height
where the camp sat. Distantly, and far below, the green of the forest
broke down to a hazy line of steel-blue that ran in turn to a huge fog
bank, snow-white in the rising sun.
"Yes, I can see it now," she said. "A lake?"
"No. Salt water--a long arm of the Pacific," he replied. "That's
where you and I part company--to your very great relief, I dare say.


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