I am very sorry that I am again unable to accompany them to church. The festal feeling reaches its climax in church-going, but, even at home, the air is laden with the fragrant odor of the birch and holiday cake.
(May 24th.)--We have had a furious spring storm, accompanied by thunder and lightning. The trees swayed to and fro and bent as if they would break.
"That's bad," said my little pitchman, "though it's good for the rye. A storm in springtime brings cold weather, while one in midsummer makes the days warmer than before."
How well this symbolizes precocious passion.
The bright sunshine has returned. I have been out of doors. Millions of blossoms are strewn about the ground and, in the forest, lay many dead young birds. They had ventured out of their nests too soon; the rain had wet their young wings and they could not return. Besides that, the nest no longer contained room for them. Forsaken and hungry, there was nothing left them but death!
Nature is terrible. It labors long and patiently to bring forth a being which it suddenly and wantonly suffers to die.
Sundays go hardest with me. One is used to look for something unusual on that day. We put on a particular dress and expect the world to do the same. On that day, more than on all others, I feel that I am in a strange world.
The brook murmurs and the birds sing, just as they did yesterday. What right have I to ask them to sing me a different song to-day?