She stands at her window looking out into the sky. Her sister comes to say, "Mother calls you." She shakes her head. Her little brother with his toy boat comes and tries to pull her off to play; she snatches her hand from his. The boy persists and she gives him a slap on the back. The first great voice was the voice of wind and water in the beginning of earth's creation. That ancient cry of nature--her dumb call to unborn life--has reached this child's heart and leads it out alone beyond the fence of our times: so there she stands, possessed by eternity! 10 The kingfisher sits still on the prow of an empty boat, while in the shallow margin of the stream a buffalo lies tranquilly blissful, its eyes half closed to savour the luxury of cool mud. Undismayed by the barking of the village cur, the cow browses on the bank, followed by a hopping group of _saliks_ hunting moths. I sit in the tamarind grove, where the cries of dumb life congregate--the cattle's lowing, the sparrows' chatter, the shrill scream of a kite overhead, the crickets' chirp, and the splash of a fish in the water. I peep into the primeval nursery of life, where the mother Earth thrills at the first living clutch near her breast. 11 At the sleepy village the noon was still like a sunny midnight when my holidays came to their end. My little girl of four had followed me all the morning from room to room, watching my preparations in grave silence, till, wearied, she sat by the doorpost strangely quiet, murmuring to herself, "Father must not go!" This was the meal hour, when sleep daily overcame her, but her mother had forgotten her and the child was too unhappy to complain. At last, when I stretched out my arms to her to say farewell, she never moved, but sadly looking at me said, "Father, you must not go!" And it amused me to tears to think how this little child dared to fight the giant world of necessity with no other resource than those few words, "Father, you must not go!" 12 Take your holiday, my boy; there are the blue sky and the bare field, the barn and the ruined temple under the ancient tamarind. My holiday must be taken through yours, finding light in the dance of your eyes, music in your noisy shouts. To you autumn brings the true holiday freedom: to me it brings the impossibility of work; for lo! you burst into my room. Yes, my holiday is an endless freedom for love to disturb me. 13 In the evening my little daughter heard a call from her companions below the window. She timidly went down the dark stairs holding a lamp in her hand, shielding it behind her veil. I was sitting on my terrace in the star-lit night of March, when at a sudden cry I ran to see. Her lamp had gone out in the dark spiral staircase. I asked, "Child, why did you cry?" From below she answered in distress, "Father, I have lost myself!"