Chapter 11

It seemed to me now that I had never really lived before so sweet was
this new life--so healthy, and free from care and regret. The old life,
which I had lived in cities, was less in my thoughts on each succeeding
day; it came to me now like the memory of a repulsive dream, which I was
only too glad to forget. How I had ever found that listless, worn-out,
luxurious, do-nothing existence endurable, seemed a greater mystery
every morning, when I went forth to my appointed task in the fields or
the workhouse, so natural and so pleasant did it now seem to labor with
my own hands, and to eat my bread in the sweat of my face. If there was
one kind of work I preferred above all others, it was wood-cutting, and
as a great deal of timber was required at this season, I was allowed to
follow my own inclination. In the forest, a couple of miles from the
house, several tough old giants--chiefly oak, chestnut, elm, and
beech--had been marked out for destruction: in some cases because they
had been scorched and riven by lightnings, and were an eyesore; in
others, because time had robbed them of their glory, withering their
long, desolate arms, and bestowing on their crowns that lusterless,
scanty foliage which has a mournful meaning, like the thin white hairs
on the bowed head of a very old man. At this distance from the house I
could freely indulge my propensity for singing, albeit in that coarser
tone which had failed to win favor with my new friends.

Among the grand trees, out of earshot of them all, I could shout aloud