No clocks had ever ticked it into passing. It could
never pass. Only the present passed. The Past, to which this day
belonged, remained where it was, endless, beginningless, self-
repeating. He chose it without more ado. And the robin had come to
mention something about it. Its small round body was full, its head
tight packed with what it had to tell. It was bursting with
information. But what--?
And then he realised abruptly another thing: It _had_ delivered its
message.
The presence of the bird had announced a change of conditions in the
room, a change in his heart and brain as well. But how? He was too
drowsy to decide quite; yet in some way the robin had brought in with
it the dawn of an unusual day, a kind of bird-day, light as a feather,
swift as a flashing wing, spontaneous--air, freedom, escape, sweet
brilliance, a thing of flowers, winds, and beauty, a thing of
innocence and captivating loveliness, a happy, dancing day. He felt a
new sort of knowledge pass darting through him, a new point of view,
almost a bird's-eye aspect of old familiar things--joy. That neat,
sharp beak had pricked his imagination into swifter life.
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