a sunrise on the veld

Every night that winter he said aloud into the dark of the pillow Half-past four Half-past four till his brain had gripped the words and held them fast. Then he fell asleep at once, as if a shutter had fallen and lay with his face turned to the clock so that he could see it first thing when he woke. It was half-past four to the minute, every morning. Triumphantly pressing down the alarm-knob of the clock, which the dark half of his mind had outwitted, remaining vigilant all night and counting the hours as he lay relaxed in sleep, he huddled down for a last warm moment under the clothes, playing with the idea of lying abed for this once only. But he played with it for the fun of knowing that it was a weakness he could defeat without effort just as he set the alarm each night for the delight of the moment when he woke and stretched his limbs, feeling the muscles tighten, and thought Even my brain even that I can control every part of myself. Luxury of warm rested body, with the arms and legs and fingers waiting like soldiers for a word of command Joy of knowing that the precious hours were given to sleep voluntarily for he had once stayed awake three nights running, to prove that he could, and then worked all day, refusing even to admit that he was tired and now sleep seemed to him a servant to be commanded and refused. The boy stretched his frame full-length, touching the wall at his head with his hands, and the bedfoot with his toes then he sprung out, like a fish leaping from water. And it was cold, cold. He always dressed rapidly, so as to try and conserve his night-warmth till the sun rose two hours later but by the time he had on his clothes his hands were numbed and he could scarcely hold his shoes. These he could not put on for fear of waking his parents, who never came to know how early he rose. As soon as he stepped over the lintel, the flesh of his soles contracted on the chilled earth, and his legs began to ache with cold. It was night the stars