Sea-birds, my hunting in the woods, my nights, and all the warm hours of that summer. But I think of all the other things: the cry of the I do not always think of her now not any more. In a white, roomy home down by the sea I met with one who busied my thoughts for a little time.
No witchery in this only I had never seen the like before.
And the people I met were strange, and of a different nature from those I had known before sometimes a single night was enough to make them blossom out from childhood into the full of their glory, ripe and fully grown. Twelve months to the year- but night was like day, and never a star to be seen in the sky. And many things seemed curious and unnatural. But I remember that the nights were very light. Now, I have forgotten many things belonging to that time, by having scarcely thought of them since. I will write of it just to amuse myself-of something that happened to me, or something I dreamed. Two years ago, I remember, the time passed quickly-beyond all comparison more quickly than time now. And for the rest I have no troubles, unless for a touch of gout now and again in my left foot, from an old bullet-wound, healed long since. That amused me too, those devilish green feathers. Sent from a place a long way off from one who need not have sent them back at all. Two bird's feathers in a sheet of note-paper with a coronet, and fastened with a seal. A few days back someone sent me two feathers. I am well content withal, and my thirty years are no age to speak of. The time goes very slowly I cannot get it to pass as quickly as I would, though I have nothing to sorrow for, and live as pleasantly as could be. And writing things down, by way of passing the time to amuse myself, no more. Sitting here thinking of that, and of a hut I lived in, and of the woods behind the hut.
These last few days I have been thinking and thinking of the Nordland summer, with its endless day.
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