The Voices of the Wilderness 



bears in this our day sounds forth. I hear in the distance 

 the ringing cry of a hen-ostrich, and I listen to it with 

 attention strained to the highest point. 



The strange duet has now long died away. But it 

 often comes up to me again in the midst of the movement 

 of civilised life and takes me back on the wings of fancy 

 to the glorious beauty of the wilderness. 



But that uncouth tropical singer is not really needed 

 to conjure up this frame of mind. A little unseen lark, 

 all by itself, can evoke for me the charm of the solitudes 

 of Xyi'ka as with a magic wand. 



How this comes to pass, I will tell the reader. We 

 must make a long tour. Now we are in the north, in 

 our native country, in the midst of the spring, amongst 

 the spreading fields of our German homeland. The song 

 of the lark fills the air, and our heart expands to its 

 music. We go out upon the open moor. We hear a 

 trilling and quavering of another kind, with a strangely 

 sweet touch ot sadness in it, especially at night the song 

 of the woodlark. But now let the reader follow me to 

 the little island of Heligoland. In the glare from the 

 lighthouse, that sends afar its rays, in this case rays that 

 bring destruction, countless numbers of larks flutter 

 and wheel about, bewildered in the darkness of the 

 autumn night, and full of anxiety and fear. On a dark, 

 rainy October night thousands of them fall victims to 

 the death that lies waiting in ambush for them below 



o 



this tower raised by the hand of man. Their little' r wings 

 have brought them safe over the ocean to the small island. 

 But there one hears no rejoicing song. No ! there 



