her sleeping； and closed the door softly and went into the room where he worked。 He got out his pencils and a new cahier； sharpened five pencils and began to write the story of his father and the raid in the year of the Maji…Maji rebellion that had started with the trek across the bitter lake。 He
made the crossing now and completed the dreadful trek of the first day when the sunrise had caught them with the part that had to be done in the dark only half finished and the mirages already making as the heat became unbearable。 By the time the morning was well advanced and a strong fresh east breeze was blowing through the pines from the sea he had finished the night at the first camp under the fig trees where the water came down from the escarpment and was moving out of that camp in the early morning and up the long draw that led to the steep cut up onto the escarpment。
He found he knew much more about his father than when he had first written this story and he knew he could measure his progress by the small things which made his father more tactile and to have more dimensions than he had in the story before。 He was fortunate； just now； that his father was not a simple man。
David wrote steadily and well and the sentences that he had made before came to him complete and entire and he put them down； corrected them； and cut them as if he were going over proof。 Not a sentence was missing and there were many that he put down as they were returned to him without changing them。 By two o'clock he had recovered； corrected and improved what it had taken him five days to write originally。 He wrote on a while longer now and there was no sign that any of it would ever cease returning to him intact。
…END…