I often give way to fits of depression and feel completely undone, forsaken, weak and helpless, and as if help must come from somewhere. But whence? and from who?
I am obliged, with each succeeding day, to overcome the melancholy that oppresses me during the mornings. In the evenings, I am calm--for I am weary then.
We hear the falling rain, but not the snow. Bitter grief is violent; resignation, calm and silent.
It is bitter cold up here; but the woods are near us, and my monster of a tile stove is a faithful friend who preserves his warmth.
Literally speaking, when Hansei returns from the forest it often takes him an hour to thaw, and regain control of his voice and movements. Until then, it is best not to talk with him, for he is easily offended; but when he has thawed, he is quite happy again, and always says: "I thank God that I've been a woodsman!"
He is evidently thinking of some method of improving the forests, but he does not say what it is.
The lower orders always have overheated rooms. They enjoy intoxication, even that of heat.