several days to break the habit of cows and hens. The second
morning I awakened again at five o'clock, but my leg did not make
for the side of the bed; the third morning I was only partially
awakened, and on the fourth morning I slept like a millionaire
(or at least I slept as a millionaire is supposed to sleep!)
until the clock struck seven.

For some days after I left home--and I walked out as casually
that morning as though I were going to the barn--I scarcely
thought or tried to think of anything but the Road. Such an
unrestrained sense of liberty, such an exaltation of freedom, I
have not known since I was a lad. When I came to my farm from the
city many years ago it was as one bound, as one who had lost out
in the World's battle and was seeking to get hold again somewhere
upon the realities of life. I have related elsewhere how I thus
came creeping like one sore wounded from the field of battle, and
how, among our hills, in the hard, steady labour in the soil of
the fields, with new and simple friends around me, I found a sort
of rebirth or resurrection. I that was worn out, bankrupt both
physically and morally, learned to live again. I have achieved
something of high happiness in these years, something I know of
pure contentment; and I have learned two or three deep and simple
things about life: I have learned that happiness is not to be had
for the seeking, but comes quietly to him who pauses at his
difficult task and looks upward. I have learned that friendship
is very simple, and, more than all else, I have learned the
lesson of being quiet, of looking out across the meadows and
hills, and of trusting a little in God.

And now, for the moment, I am regaining another of the joys of