' THE HEART'S WILDNESS 27 



tell — all that we know, but we do not observe it 

 with Benjie's keenness; and the delicate indica- 

 tions which are too small and too numerous to 

 argue from, which can be felt as a whole rather 

 than observed separately — those we cannot feel as 

 Benjie does, nor sum them up so surely with his 

 nearly infallible instinct. 



Most of all, his pride in the winds and waves 

 arises from this fact, that he has weathered all 

 weathers himself. When younger men jeer at his 

 speeches he is able to declare, 'I've lived rough; 

 I've been hungry; I've gone barefooted; and I'd 

 wear down you youngsters yet. Just you come 

 'long wi' me. . . .' But they don't go; they 

 don't take up the challenge. Benjie would win. 

 He has won already. After a long life, which no 

 one could call successful in the worldly sense, he 

 finds it in him to say often, 'If I lives to be a 

 hundred — an' I hope I may. . . .' Unlike the 

 deep-sea sailors, he seldom speaks of 'dirty' 

 weather, preferring to call It wild. The choice of 

 phrase contains his verdict on the winds and waves. 

 Moderate weather ministers to his necessities, wild 

 weather to the wildness of his heart. 



That, indeed, is what the winds and waves do 

 for us all. Therein lies their strange kinship with 



