least whether one is living or dead.

All through the winter Freckles' entire energy was given to keeping up
his lines and his "chickens" from freezing or starving. When the first
breath of spring touched the Limberlost, and the snow receded before it;
when the catkins began to bloom; when there came a hint of green to the
trees, bushes, and swale; when the rushes lifted their heads, and the
pulse of the newly resurrected season beat strongly in the heart of
nature, something new stirred in the breast of the boy.

Nature always levies her tribute. Now she laid a powerful hand on the
soul of Freckles, to which the boy's whole being responded, though
he had not the least idea what was troubling him. Duncan accepted his
wife's theory that it was a touch of spring fever, but Freckles knew
better. He never had been so well. Clean, hot, and steady the blood
pulsed in his veins. He was always hungry, and his most difficult work
tired him not at all. For long months, without a single intermission,
he had tramped those seven miles of trail twice each day, through every
conceivable state of weather. With the heavy club he gave his wires a
sure test, and between sections, first in play, afterward to keep his
circulation going, he had acquired the skill of an expert drum major.
In his work there was exercise for every muscle of his body each hour of
the day, at night a bath, wholesome food, and sound sleep in a room that
never knew fire. He had gained flesh and color, and developed a greater
strength and endurance than anyone ever could have guessed.

Nor did the Limberlost contain last year's terrors. He had been with
her in her hour of desolation, when stripped bare and deserted, she had
stood shivering, as if herself afraid. He had made excursions into the
interior until he was familiar with every path and road that ever