Onthehighroadtheremightbeawkwardquestions。
WhenIstartedoutagainIfeltverystiffandthecoldseemedtobegrowingintense。Thispuzzledme，forIhadnotmindeditmuchuptonow，and，beingwarm—bloodedbynature，itneverusedtoworryme。Asharpwinternightonthehigh—veldwasalongsightchillierthananythingIhadstrucksofarinEurope。Butnowmyteethwerechatteringandthemarrowseemedtobefreezinginmybones。
Thedayhadstartedbrightandclear，butawrackofgreycloudssooncoveredthesky，andawindfromtheeastbegantowhistle。
AsIstumbledalongthroughthesnowyundergrowthIkeptlongingforbrightwarmplaces。Ithoughtofthoselongdaysontheveldwhentheearthwaslikeagreatyellowbowl，withwhiteroadsrunningtothehorizonandatinywhitefarmbaskingintheheartofit，withitsbluedamandpatchesofbrightgreenlucerne。I
thoughtofthosebakingdaysontheeastcoast，whentheseawaslikemother—of—pearlandtheskyoneburningturquoise。ButmostofallIthoughtofwarmscentednoonsontrek，whenonedozedintheshadowofthewagonandsniffedthewood—smokefromthefirewheretheboyswerecookingdinner。