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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
309
January
28.
Still
blowing
and
bitterly
cold.
Along
the
path
fields
in
the
Park
I
stopped
to
look
at
a
thick
clump
of
Firs
standing
aloof
on
some
high
ground
and
guarded
by
an
outside
ring
of
honest
English
Oaks,
Ashes
and
Elms.
They
were
a
sombre
mysterious
little
crowd
intent,
I
fancied,
on
some
secret
ritual
of
the
trees.
The
high
ground
on
which
they
stood
looked
higher
and
more
inaccessible
than
it
really
was,
the
clump
was
dark
green,
almost
black,
and
in
between
their
trunks
where
all
was
obscurity,
some
hardy
adventurer
might
well
have
discovered
a
Grand
Lama
sitting
within
his
Penetralia.
But
I
had
no
taste
for
any
such
profanity,
and
even
as
I
looked
the
sun
came
out
from
behind
a
cloud
very
slowly,
bringing
the
picture
into
clearer
focus,
chasing
away
shadows
and
bringing
out
all
the
colours.
The
landscape
resumed
its
homely
aspect:
an
English
park
with
Firs
in
it.
January
29.
Last
night,
I
pulled
aside
the
window
curtain
of
our
front
door
and
peeped
out.
Just
below
the
densely
black
projecting
gable
of
the
house
I
saw
the
crescent
moon
lying
on
her
back
in
a
bed
of
purple
sky,
and
I
saw
our
little
white
frosted
garden
path
curving
up
towards
the
garden
gate.
It
was
a
delicious
coup
d'œil,
and
I
shewed
it
to
E----.
January
31.
Showers
of
snow
at
intervals,
the
little
flakes
rocking
about
lazily
or
spiralling
down,
while
the
few
that
eventually
reached
the
ground
would
in
a
moment
or
so
be
caught
up
in
a
sudden
furious
puff
of
wind,
and
sent
driving
along
the
road
with
the
dust.
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