On sultry afternoons, when the air quivered3in the cool and fading light of early evening, I used to stand here by the old oak and look out across an interluden of scrub and swamp from which several miles away, a hill emerged. As a hill it was insignificant enough.Below its bare summit an abandoned pasture lay dotted with ground juniper and outcroppings of granite.Yet something about that hill drew me, beckoned to me, across the miles.I could not bear to take my eyes from it, I knew only that before summer ended I must go to it，（make my way over the pasture, up and up past shrub and granite until I stood on the very summit.）It ；was something I had to do.I could not explain why.I did not even ask myself.