folds, but I only knew their warmth. With that, I step round the mountain
side.




II HOME IS THE WARRIOR


Things call to each other after the great silence has fallen, scenes come
together, and that is how it seems here.

A ship, bound on a far voyage, lay in Plymouth waters the day that the
Queen succeeded to the throne. It was laden with an expedition for the
new wonderland of the Australias, whither it duly sailed. As leader, the
expedition had a young lieutenant of the 83rd Foot Regiment, George
Grey.

On a spring afternoon, fifty-seven years later, there landed at the same
port, from a New Zealand liner, an aged man who received marked
attention. He was as a gnarled oak of the wide-ranged British forest, and
the younger trees bent in salute to him. It was Sir George Grey, returned
finally to the Motherland, which had sent him forth to build nations.

He had gone in a tubby wooden craft, the winds his carrier, across oceans
that were pathless, except to the venturer. He returned by steam, through
seas which it had tamed to the churn and rumble of the screw. What
thought in the contrasting pictures of the world! The two Englands might
have met each other in the street, and passed, strangers.