250 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



would not satisfy the scheme of things by being 

 worth eating. The victims of the hot pot invented 

 by Mr. Rider Haggard had to be taken at the height 

 of their enjoyment, or the gourmets that were to eat 

 them would not be satisfied. 



It is death without a shadow. When the hawk 

 appears in the blue, then it is time enough to fly. It 

 is just a hot-blooded race wherein we have no time 

 to think of the stakes. Any one who runs a race 

 knows that all the anguish of it precedes the starting 

 signal. At the firing of the pistol worry and anxiety 

 vanish, and we find ourselves running unexpectedly 

 well. It is not nearly so bad as we had thought. 

 We are quite happy and comfortable, until the race 

 is over and we have come in second. Then it strikes 

 us that we might have spurted earlier and better, or 

 have put an ounce or two more into it. The same 

 would happen if the race were for life. We should 

 run as gamely as any rabbit, and, if the race was a 

 good one, should perhaps congratulate the victor as 

 he proceeded to eat us. 



It is sheer speculation ? In our islands we cannot 

 imagine the horrors of earthquake or, happily, of war. 

 If we dream of them it is an insupportable nightmare. 

 Surely human nature could not endure such horrors. 

 But when we speak to one who has been through a 

 war or an earthquake, it is much as though he had 

 gone through a shower of rain. The crisis is accom- 

 panied by the right mood, and all goes off well. You 

 walk about in the streets while the town is being 

 shelled, but you lie down automatically when a shell 

 is coming your way. In Piccadilly it would be an 

 agony even to lie down, but in Ladysmith it is almost 



