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Updated: August 31, 2025
But Nat only laughed. "Jiminy Christmas, it was great!" He had thrown back his head, laughing. That was Nat all through sipping of life generously, no matter in what form. He had stayed just three weeks. He had spent them chiefly defeating Maw's plans to keep him. Wanderlust kept him longer the next time. That was eight years ago. Since then he had been back home three times.
While gazing up the Rue de Rivoli or across the rice paddies at the snowy cap of Fuji, his Blood would become het by the old boyhood Desire to sail across the Blue to Foreign Parts. Those who saw him mowing the Lawn little suspected that he was being inwardly eaten by the Wanderlust.
Driven by wanderlust and an unappeasable discontent, Stuart Farquaharson had been in many remote places. Around those towns which were Meccas for tourists he made wide detours.
In his eyes, however, was the wanderlust which had possessed him for three long years, in which he had been searching for what to him was more than Eldorado, for it was hope and home. Hope was all he had left of the assets which had made him so great a figure as he once thought in his native parish of St. Saviour's. It was his fixed idea une idee fixe, as he himself said.
At Nizhny Novgorod, as at Kazan, Gorky felt himself attracted by the circle of young people who discussed the "cursed" questions, and he soon was noticed by his comrades. They spoke of him as "a live and energetic soul." Easy as life was for Gorky in this city, where he remained for a while, the "wanderlust" again seized him. "Not feeling at home among these intelligent people," he traveled.
I don't say it may not be inherent; but if you care to look the matter up, you will find that the craziest phase of my life is that covering the last seven years. The reason why I have courted death during that period I am now about to explain. "Although my father was no traveller, I think I was born with the wanderlust.
Until the thawing of the snow I faithfully worked upon the section, but when Spring again set in with full force, there came another attack of the strange fever that drove me onward every year, and, following the "Call of the Wanderlust", I left for the South, having again promised that with the approach of winter I would be on hand to fill my place with the section crew.
But when his last fortune was swept away, the old Wanderlust again claimed its own. Houses and lands and mortgages and mills and mines had slipped from his grasp. But it mattered little. He had only himself to care for, and, with pick and pan strapped to his saddlebow, he set his face westward.
I have wandered on the plains of the Musk-ox, the home of the Snowbird and the Caribou. These were the things I had burned to do. Was I content? Content!! Is a man ever content with a single sip of joy long-dreamed of? Four years have gone since then. The wanderlust was not stifled any more than a fire is stifled by giving it air.
Oh, I want to read it!" With an unexplored land between gilt-tooled covers under his arm he went upstairs early, in the transport of wanderlust that had sent him away over the sand from Little Rivers. Sí, sí, Firio, outward bound, camp under the stars!
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