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Leila's Books
THE REGENERATION OF TWO
THE REGENERATION OF TWO
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This ebook edition has been proofed and corrected for errors and compiled to be read with without errors!
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An excerpt from the beginning of Part II:
Snow everywhere! A white world wrapped in a snowy shroud, under a gray-white sky. What a feast the gods are preparing! The last down of the wild-geese breasts falls softly, silently, caressingly down, as when death comes to a little child in its sleep. A twig crackling in the wood, the brittle snap of a branch under its weight of snow, the rattling rush of icicles as it crashes to the ground, the hoarse, startled call of capercailzie, — every sound is as crisply distinct in the clear stillness as a sibilant whisper in a hushed room. Every touch of color, the crimson in a little lad's muffler as he drags his newly painted kjelke (hand-sled) up the hill, strikes warmly to one, as the light in the window to a wayfarer on a murky night, or one's name on the lips of a sleeping lover.
A great white house nestles in the hollow like the mausoleum of a Titan under a white pall. The sun strikes disks of light off the window-panes, and the steam of the beasts' breaths and skins waves out from the stalls into the frosty air, to fall in feathery flakes to the ground. Every outline is sharply defined; there are many shades in the whiteness of the world, — silver-white, golden-white, white with a gray, and white with a green in it. The sea is frozen near the land into glass-gray ridges, and further out the waves wash over the serrated edges of the last freezing: the "sprint" of beast and the tell-tale impression of birds' claws mark the snow in all directions, and the heaviest animal goes with a padding step.
***
An excerpt from the beginning of Part II:
Snow everywhere! A white world wrapped in a snowy shroud, under a gray-white sky. What a feast the gods are preparing! The last down of the wild-geese breasts falls softly, silently, caressingly down, as when death comes to a little child in its sleep. A twig crackling in the wood, the brittle snap of a branch under its weight of snow, the rattling rush of icicles as it crashes to the ground, the hoarse, startled call of capercailzie, — every sound is as crisply distinct in the clear stillness as a sibilant whisper in a hushed room. Every touch of color, the crimson in a little lad's muffler as he drags his newly painted kjelke (hand-sled) up the hill, strikes warmly to one, as the light in the window to a wayfarer on a murky night, or one's name on the lips of a sleeping lover.
A great white house nestles in the hollow like the mausoleum of a Titan under a white pall. The sun strikes disks of light off the window-panes, and the steam of the beasts' breaths and skins waves out from the stalls into the frosty air, to fall in feathery flakes to the ground. Every outline is sharply defined; there are many shades in the whiteness of the world, — silver-white, golden-white, white with a gray, and white with a green in it. The sea is frozen near the land into glass-gray ridges, and further out the waves wash over the serrated edges of the last freezing: the "sprint" of beast and the tell-tale impression of birds' claws mark the snow in all directions, and the heaviest animal goes with a padding step.
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