of the alphabet piled in a heap. The moon rises, the stars break forth. I
am cold and shiver a little, but I have nothing to do in the hut, and
prefer to shiver as long as possible. In the winter I did nothing so
foolish, but went home if I was cold. Now I'm tired of that, too. It is
the spring.

The sky is pure and cool, lying wide open to all the stars. There is a
great flock of worlds up in that endless meadow, tiny, teeming worlds, so
tiny that they are like the sound of a tinkling bell; as I look at them, I
can hear thousands of tiny bells. Yes, certainly I am being drawn more and
more toward the grassy slopes of spring.




V


I fill the fireplace with pine wood, hoist my belongings to my back, and
leave the hut. "Farewell, Madame."

That was the end.

I feel no pleasure at leaving my shelter, but a touch of sadness--as I
always do on leaving a place that has been my home for some time. But all
the world stands outside calling to me. Indeed I am like all lovers of the
woods and fields; wordlessly we had agreed to meet, and as I sat there
last night, I felt my eyes being drawn to the door.

Several times I look back at the hut, with the smoke rising up from the