The Saint John's fern

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Clouds were gathering on the horizon, the first indication of a squall rolling in from the still distant sea, and a sharp tang of salt was borne on the freshening breeze. All about me lay the low curves of the moor, rising steeply in places to rocky outcrops of granite, poised between heaven and earth like mysterious elfin castles. Patches of fern and bracken glowed faintly bronze-coloured in the fluctuating light, a reminder of autumn, in spite of the warmth of the October morning.

Looking back now from the safety of old age — and seventy-five is a good ripe age for a man to reach — I can see myself clearly as I was then: young, vigorous, healthy, having just achieved my twenty-fifth birthday. And I marvel how unafraid of life I was. It never worried me what that fickle jade might have in store for me, for I had the utmost confidence in my ability to extricate myself from any and every untoward situation. (This is a slight exaggeration, perhaps, for I put my faith in God as well; but then, it was usually He who landed me in all my difficulties in the first place.)

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