The journals of Susanna Moodie

Is it my clothes, my way of walking, the things I carry in my hand -a book, a bag with knitting- the incongruous pink of my shawl this space cannot hear or is it my own lack of conviction which makes these vistas of desolation, long hills, the swamps, the barren sand, the glare of the sun on the bone-white driftlogs, omens of winter, the moon alien in daytime a thin refusal The others leap, shout Freedom!