A cuckoo sat hoo-hooing in the birch just north of the house. It was so loud that at first I thought it was an opera singer imitating a cuckoo. I looked at the bird in surprise. Its tail feathers moved up and down to each note like a pump handle. The bird was bouncing on both feet, turning round, and screaming toward every point of the compass. Then it took off, muttering, and flew over the house away to the west. . . . Summer is growing old and everything is flowing into a single melancholy murmur. Cuculus canorus will return to the tropics. Its time in Sweden is over. Its time here was not long! In fact the cuckoo is a citizen of Zaire. . . . I am no longer so fond of making journeys. But the journey visits me. Now when I am more and more pushed into a corner, when the annual growth rings multiply, when I need reading glasses. Always there is much more happening than we can bear. There is nothing to be surprised at. These thoughts bear me as faithfully as Susi and Chuma bore Livingstone’s embalmed body right through Africa.