I was in a hurry to partake freely of the novel, and yearned for
pleasure of the absolute freedom of isles uninhabited, shores untrodden;
eager to know how Nature, not under the microscope, behaved; what were
her maiden fancies, what the art with which she allures.
But there was an excuse, rather an imperious command, for all the
apparent waste of time. Before the rains came thundering on the iron roof
of our little hut, the washed-out and enfeebled town dweller who gave way
to bitter reflections on the first evening of his new career, could
hardly have been recognised, thanks to the robustious, wholesome effects
of the free and vitalising life. Fourteen, frequently sixteen, hours of
the twenty-four were spent in the open air, ashore and afloat.
What a glowing and absolutely authentic testimonial could be written as
to the tonic influence of the misrepresented climate of the rainy belt of
North Queensland on constitutions that have run down? According to
popular opinion, malaria ought to have discovered an exceptionally easy
prey. Ague, if the expected had happened, should have gripped and shaken
me until my teeth rattled; and after alternations of raging fever and
arctic cold, I ought to have gone to my long home with the fearful shapes
of delirium yelling in my ears.
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