THE CLOUDS part, the morning star appears in the East, a breath of relief springs up from the heart of the earth, the murmur of leaves ripples along the forest path, and the early bird sings. 'The time has come,' proclaims the Man of faith. 'The time for what?' 'For the pilgrimage.' They sit and think, they know not the meaning, and yet they seem to understand according to their desires. The touch of the dawn goes deep into the soil and life shivers along through the roots of all things. 'To the pilgrimage of fulfilment,' a small voice whispers, nobody knows whence. Taken up by the crowd it swells into a mighty meaning. Men raise their heads and look up, women lift their arms in reverence, children clap their hands and laugh. The early glow of the sun shines like a golden garland on the forehead of the Man of faith, and they all cry: 'Brother, we salute thee!'
THE EARLY autumn day is cloudless. The river is full to the brim, washing the naked roots of the tottering tree by the ford. The long narrow path, like the thirsty tongue of the village, dips down into the stream. My heart is full, as I look around me and see the silent sky and the flowing water, and feel that happiness is spread abroad, as simply as a smile on a child's face.
