bloom; all the forest seemed filled with delight. A green worm thing, a
caterpillar, dragged itself end by end along a branch, dragging along
unceasingly, as if it could not rest. It saw hardly anything, for all it
had eyes; often it stood straight up in the air, feeling about for
something to take hold of; it looked like a stump of green thread sewing
a seam with long stitches along the branch. By evening, perhaps, it
would have reached its goal.

Quiet as ever. I get up and move on, sit down and get up again. It is
about four o'clock; about six I can start for home, and see if I happen
to meet anyone. Two hours to wait; a little restless already, I brush
the dust and heather from my clothes. I know the places I pass by, trees
and stones stand there as before in their solitude; the leaves rustle
underfoot as I walk. The monotonous breathing and the familiar trees and
stones mean much to me; I am filled with a strange thankfulness;
everything seems well disposed towards me, mingles with my being; I love
it all. I pick up a little dry twig and hold it in my hand and sit
looking at it, and think my own thoughts; the twig is almost rotten, its
poor bark touches me, pity fills my heart. And when I get up again, I do
not throw the twig far away, but lay it down, and stand liking it; at
last I look at it once more with wet eyes before I go away and leave it
there.

Five o'clock. The sun tells me false time today; I have been walking
westward the whole day, and come perhaps half an hour ahead of my sun
marks at the hut. I am quite aware of all this, but none the less there
is an hour yet before six o'clock, so I get up again and go on a little.
And the leaves rustle under foot. An hour goes that way.

I look down at the little stream and the little mill that has been