A SEASHORE ONE MILE UP 



I dropped below the ridge the chill air was quiet, 

 while overhead the wind soughed mournfully 

 through the needles about the gendarmerie, with 

 the self -same sound as it used about the daks in 

 Sikhim close to the snow line. A man passed 

 quickly with his head tied up — as the Tibetans, 

 not the Haitians, do. 



I went on and on, unconsciously listening for the 

 call of a tragopan, or the snarl of a snow leopard. 

 But nothing came but the rasping snores from this 

 hut, then, before I had quite got beyond ear range, 

 the groans of a mother in childbirth, then more 

 snoring from another isolated hut, and I returned, 

 disillusioned, and the soughing took on an ironical 

 strain. The gods of memory were laughing at 

 me and, as Dunsany says, the laughter of the gods 

 is always ironical laughter. 



115 



