An Evening Scene - My Mother - Captain Scott - The Hermit And His Awful Penance.

It was never my intention to write an autobiography.

Since I took to writing in my middle years I have, from time to time, related some incident of my boyhood, and these are contained in various chapters in _The Naturalist in La Plata, Birds and Man, Adventures among Birds,_ and other works, also in two or three magazine articles: all this material would have been kept back if I had contemplated such a book as this. When my friends have asked me in recent years why I did not write a history of my early life on the pampas, my answer was that I had already told all that was worth telling in these books. And I really believed it was so; for when a person endeavours to recall his early life in its entirety he finds it is not possible: he is like one who ascends a hill to survey the prospect before him on a day of heavy cloud and shadow, who sees at a distance, now here, now there, some feature in the landscape - hill or wood or tower or spire - touched and made conspicuous by a transitory sunbeam while all else remains in obscurity. The scenes, people, events we are able by an effort to call up do not present themselves in order; there is no order, no sequence or regular progression - nothing, in fact, but isolated spots or patches, brightly illumined and vividly seen, in the midst of a wide shrouded mental landscape.

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