quinta-feira, 10 de novembro de 2011

Dr. Livingstone, I presume

10 de novembro de 1871:

We push on rapidly. We halt a little brook, then ascend the long slope of a naked ridge, the very last of the mytiads we have crossed. We arrive at the summit, travel across, and arrive at its western rim, and Ujiji is bellow us, embowered in the palms, only five hundred yards from us! At this grand moment we do not think of the hundreds of miles we had marched, of the hundreds of hills that we have ascended and descended, of the many forests we have traversed, of the jungles and thickets that annoyed us, of the fervid salt plains that blistered our feet, of the hot suns that scorched us, nor the dangers and difficulties now happily summoned. Our hearts and our feelings are with our eyes, as we peer into the palms and try to make out in which hut or house lives the white man with the gray beard we heard about on the Malagarazi.

white man with the gray beard é Livingstone; o autor do texto, Henry Stanley.

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