All the autobiography that's wanted for our present purpose
is that I went up to Trinity College, Cambridge, in the footsteps
(among others) of Francis Bacon and Isaac Newton, and--well, you see
the result. May I go on?_"
_But although they were listening, Otway did not at once go on.
Sammy had spoken in his usual light way and yet with something of a
pang in his voice, and something of a transient cloud still rested on
the boy's face. Otway noted it, and understood. When the war broke
out, Sammy had been on the point of going up to Oxford_. . . .
_Before the cloudlet passed, Otway had a vision behind it, though the
vision came from his own brain, out of his own memory--a vision of
green turf and of boys in white on it, a small regiment set orderly
against a background of English elms, and moving orderly, intent on
the game of games_.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle,
The garden of the world erstwhile. . . .
Unhappy! shall we nevermore
That sweet militia restore?
_Snatches of an old parody floated in his brain with the vision--a
parody of Walt Whitman--_
Far off a grey-brown thrush warbling in hedge or in marsh; Down there
in the blossoming bushes, my brother, what is that you are
saying? .
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