Quicksands

Upon the short, thick grass of a small, secluded opening in a magnificent forest of firs and beeches a young man lay, his hands clasped under his head, buried in waking dreams. He had chosen himself a charming retreat, where he was safe from all intrusion from wayfarers passing through the forest by any of the roads or paths that intersected it at a sufficient distance from this spot. Profound quiet reigned in the forest, intensified, rather than disturbed, by the humming of insects; the very birds which had twittered and sung in the early morning seemed silenced by the heat; all creatures sought repose and refreshment at high noon on this glowing July day. If the young fellow who lay thus luxuriously bedded were seeking mental as well as bodily repose, it was evident that he had not found it. He was not asleep; his dark eyes were wide open, gazing restlessly and discontentedly into the spaces of sky among the beech boughs until pained by their brilliancy. «How tiresome! how unutterably stupid!» he muttered, altering his comfortable position so as to rest his head upon his hand as he leaned upon his elbow. «That deadly-tiresome, monotonous stretch of brilliant blue sky is the very image of my own weary existence. Nothing but light and splendor; it is intolerable. If the sky were only covered with clouds,–if there could be a flash here and there of lightning, with thunder crashing and winds howling, one might have some satisfaction in sending a bullet through one's brains with the thunder for a dirge. But no, even that is not to be. I am to die as I have lived, surrounded by weary, soul-destroying sunshine. Ah, well, it is a fitting end to an insignificant and utterly useless life. Come, little friend, it is high time we were done with it.»