Far back in the chain of memories, the memory once best loved was
almost awake once more, the link of once clasped hands was almost alive
again, the tender pressure of fingers now perhaps long dead was again
almost a reality able to thrill body and soul. And with all that, and with
the certainty that those things were gone for ever, arose the great
longing for one more breath of liberty, for one more ride over the
boundless steppe, for one more draught of the sour kvass, of the camp brew
of rye and malt.
The longing for such things, for one thing almost unattainable, is in man
and beast at certain times. In the distant northern plains, a hundred
miles from the sea, in the midst of the Laplander's village, a young
reindeer raises his broad muzzle to the north wind, and stares at the
limitless distance while a man may count a hundred. He grows restless from
that moment, but he is yet alone. The next day, a dozen of the herd look
up, from the cropping of the moss, snuffing the breeze. Then the Laps nod
to one another, and the camp grows daily more unquiet. At times, the whole
herd of young deer stand at gaze, as it were, breathing hard through wide
nostrils, then jostling each other and stamping the soft ground. They grow
unruly and it is hard to harness them in the light sledge. As the days
pass, the Laps watch them more and more closely, well knowing what will
happen sooner or later. And then at last, in the northern twilight, the
great herd begins to move.
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