His mind cleared. Some old, forgotten joy, wonderful as the dawn,
burst into his heart, rose to fire in his eyes, flooded his whole
being. A glory long eclipsed, a dream interrupted years ago, an
uncompleted game of earliest youth--all these rose from their hiding-
place and recaptured him, soul and body. He glanced at the children.
These things he had recaptured, they, of course, had never lost; this
state and attitude of wonder was their natural prerogative; he had
recovered the ownership of the world, but they had possessed it
always. They knew the whole business from beginning to end--only they
liked to hear it stated. That was obviously his duty as a grown-up: to
stick the label on.
"Of course," he whispered, deliciously enchanted. "You've got it. It's
_the_ snopportunity! The great thing is to--look."
And, as if to prove him right, a flock of birds passed sweeping
through the air above their heads, paused in mid-flight, wheeled,
fluttered noisily a second, then scattered in all directions like
leaves whirled by an eddy of loose, autumn wind.
"Come on," cried Tim, remembering perhaps the "dodgy" butterfly and
trying to imitate it with his arms and legs.
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