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- Джек Лондон
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Thus
on
the
upland
pastures
behind
my
alfalfa
meadows
I
developed
a
new
farm
with
the
aid
of
Angora
goats
.
Here
I
marked
the
changes
with
every
dream-visit
,
and
the
changes
were
in
accordance
with
the
time
that
elapsed
between
visits
.
Oh
,
those
brush-covered
slopes
!
How
I
can
see
them
now
just
as
when
the
goats
were
first
introduced
.
And
how
I
remembered
the
consequent
changes
--
the
paths
beginning
to
form
as
the
goats
literally
ate
their
way
through
the
dense
thickets
;
the
disappearance
of
the
younger
,
smaller
bushes
that
were
not
too
tall
for
total
browsing
;
the
vistas
that
formed
in
all
directions
through
the
older
,
taller
bushes
,
as
the
goats
browsed
as
high
as
they
could
stand
and
reach
on
their
hind
legs
;
the
driftage
of
the
pasture
grasses
that
followed
in
the
wake
of
the
clearing
by
the
goats
.
Yes
,
the
continuity
of
such
dreaming
was
its
charm
.
Came
the
day
when
the
men
with
axes
chopped
down
all
the
taller
brush
so
as
to
give
the
goats
access
to
the
leaves
and
buds
and
bark
.
Came
the
day
,
in
winter
weather
,
when
the
dry
denuded
skeletons
of
all
these
bushes
were
gathered
into
heaps
and
burned
.
Came
the
day
when
I
moved
my
goats
on
to
other
brush-impregnable
hillsides
,
with
following
in
their
wake
my
cattle
,
pasturing
knee-deep
in
the
succulent
grasses
that
grew
where
before
had
been
only
brush
.
And
came
the
day
when
I
moved
my
cattle
on
,
and
my
plough-men
went
back
and
forth
across
the
slopes
'
contour
--
ploughing
the
rich
sod
under
to
rot
to
live
and
crawling
humous
in
which
to
bed
my
seeds
of
crops
to
be
.
Yes
,
and
in
my
dreams
,
often
,
I
got
off
the
little
narrow-gauge
train
where
the
straggly
village
stood
beside
the
big
dry
creek
,
and
got
into
the
buckboard
behind
my
mountain
horses
,
and
drove
hour
by
hour
past
all
the
old
familiar
landmarks
of
my
alfalfa
meadows
,
and
on
to
my
upland
pastures
where
my
rotated
crops
of
corn
and
barley
and
clover
were
ripe
for
harvesting
and
where
I
watched
my
men
engaged
in
the
harvest
,
while
beyond
,
ever
climbing
,
my
goats
browsed
the
higher
slopes
of
brush
into
cleared
,
tilled
fields
.
But
these
were
dreams
,
frank
dreams
,
fancied
adventures
of
my
deductive
subconscious
mind
.
Quite
unlike
them
,
as
you
shall
see
,
were
my
other
adventures
when
I
passed
through
the
gates
of
the
living
death
and
relived
the
reality
of
the
other
lives
that
had
been
mine
in
other
days
.
In
the
long
hours
of
waking
in
the
jacket
I
found
that
I
dwelt
a
great
deal
on
Cecil
Winwood
,
the
poet-forger
who
had
wantonly
put
all
this
torment
on
me
,
and
who
was
even
then
at
liberty
out
in
the
free
world
again
.
No
;
I
did
not
hate
him
.
The
word
is
too
weak
.
There
is
no
word
in
the
language
strong
enough
to
describe
my
feelings
.
I
can
say
only
that
I
knew
the
gnawing
of
a
desire
for
vengeance
on
him
that
was
a
pain
in
itself
and
that
exceeded
all
the
bounds
of
language
.
I
shall
not
tell
you
of
the
hours
I
devoted
to
plans
of
torture
on
him
,
nor
of
the
diabolical
means
and
devices
of
torture
that
I
invented
for
him
.
Just
one
example
I
was
enamoured
of
the
ancient
trick
whereby
an
iron
basin
,
containing
a
rat
,
is
fastened
to
a
man
's
body
.
The
only
way
out
for
the
rat
is
through
the
man
himself
.
As
I
say
,
I
was
enamoured
of
this
until
I
realized
that
such
a
death
was
too
quick
,
whereupon
I
dwelt
long
and
favourably
on
the
Moorish
trick
of
--
but
no
,
I
promised
to
relate
no
further
of
this
matter
.
Let
it
suffice
that
many
of
my
pain-maddening
waking
hours
were
devoted
to
dreams
of
vengeance
on
Cecil
Winwood
.
One
thing
of
great
value
I
learned
in
the
long
,
pain-weary
hours
of
waking
--
namely
,
the
mastery
of
the
body
by
the
mind
.
I
learned
to
suffer
passively
,
as
,
undoubtedly
,
all
men
have
learned
who
have
passed
through
the
post-graduate
courses
of
strait-jacketing
.
Oh
,
it
is
no
easy
trick
to
keep
the
brain
in
such
serene
repose
that
it
is
quite
oblivious
to
the
throbbing
,
exquisite
complaint
of
some
tortured
nerve
.
And
it
was
this
very
mastery
of
the
flesh
by
the
spirit
which
I
so
acquired
that
enabled
me
easily
to
practise
the
secret
Ed
Morrell
told
to
me
.
"
Think
it
is
curtains
?
"
Ed
Morrell
rapped
to
me
one
night
.
I
had
just
been
released
from
one
hundred
hours
,
and
I
was
weaker
than
I
had
ever
been
before
.
So
weak
was
I
that
though
my
whole
body
was
one
mass
of
bruise
and
misery
,
nevertheless
I
scarcely
was
aware
that
I
had
a
body
.
