one man needs not to utter words of thanks to his fellow, if every one
would but acknowledge who it really is that gives."

The peasant looked up in astonishment. Gellert remarked it, and said:
"Understand me aright. I thank you from my heart; you have done a kind
action. But that the trees grow is none of yours, and it is none of mine
that thoughts arise in me; every one simply tills his field, and tends
his woodland, and the honest, assiduous toil he gives thereto is his
virtue. That you felled, loaded, and brought the wood, and wish no
recompense for your labor, is very thank- worthy. My wood was more
easily felled; but those still nights which I and all of my calling pass
in heavy thought--who can tell what toil there is in them? There is in
the world an adjustment which no one sees, and which but seldom
discovers itself; and this and that shift thither and hither, and the
scales of the balance become even, and then ceases all distinction
between 'mine' and 'thine,' and in the still forest rings an axe for me,
and in the silent night my spirit thinks and my pen writes for you."

The peasant passed both his hands over his temples, and his look was as
though he said to himself, "Where are you? Are you still in the world?
Is it a mortal man who speaks to you? Are you in Leipzig, in that
populous city where men jostle one another for gain and bare existence?"

Below might be heard the creaking of the saw as the wood was being
sundered: and now the near horse neighs, and Christopher is in the world
again. "It may injure the horse to stand so long in the cold; and no
money for the wood! but perhaps a sick horse to take home into the
bargain; that would be too much," he thought.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Professor," said he--he had his hat under his arm, and