My stock of provisions had been so long consumed that I had
forgotten the flavour of pulse and maize and pumpkins and purple
and sweet potatoes. For Nuflo's cultivated patch had been
destroyed by the savages--not a stem, not a root had they left:
and I, like the sorrowful man that broods on his sorrow and the
artist who thinks only of his art, had been improvident and had
consumed the seed without putting a portion into the ground.
Only wild food, and too little of that, found with much seeking
and got with many hurts. Birds screamed at and scolded me;
branches bruised and thorns scratched me; and still worse were
the angry clouds of waspish things no bigger than flies.
Buzz--buzz! Sting--sting! A serpent's tooth has failed to kill
me; little do I care for your small drops of fiery venom so that
I get at the spoil--grubs and honey. My white bread and purple
wine! Once my soul hungered after knowledge; I took delight in
fine thoughts finely expressed; I sought them carefully in
printed books: now only this vile bodily hunger, this eager
seeking for grubs and honey, and ignoble war with little things!
A bad hunter I proved after larger game.
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