II
Spring
Yan, though not strong, revelled in deeds of brawn. He would ratherhave been Samson than Moses--Hercules than Apollo. All his tastesinclined him to wild life. Each year when the spring came, he felt theinborn impulse to up and away. He was stirred through and through whenthe first Crow, in early March, came barking over-head. But it fairlyboiled in his blood when the Wild Geese, in long, double, arrow-headedprocession, went clanging northward. He longed to go with them.Whenever a new bird or beast appeared, he had a singular pricklingfeeling up his spine and his back as though he had a mane that wasstanding up. This feeling strengthened with his strength.
All of his schoolmates used to say that they "liked" the spring, someof the girls would even say that they "dearly loved" the spring, butthey could not understand the madness that blazed in Yan's eyes whenspringtime really came--the flush of cheek--the shortening breath--therestless craving for action--the chafing with flashes of rebellion atschool restraints--the overflow of nervous energy--the bloodthirstin his blood--the hankering to run--to run to the north, when thespringtime tokens bugled to his every sense.
Then the wind and sky and ground were full of thrill. There wasclamour everywhere, but never a word. There was stirring within andwithout. There was incentive in the yelping of the Wild Geese; but itwas only tumult, for he could not understand why he was so stirred.There were voices that he could not hear--messages that he could notread; all was confusion of tongues. He longed only to get away.
"If only I could get away. If--if--Oh, God!" he stammered in tormentof inexpression, and then would gasp and fling himself down on somebank, and bite the twigs that chanced within reach and tremble andwonder at himself.
Only one thing kept him from some mad and suicidal move--from joiningsome roving Indian band up north, or gypsies nearer--and that was thestrong hand at home.