The lark affords me great delight. There are but few of them up here, for we have nothing but meadow land. They love to hover over the fields of grain down in the valley.
After the midsummer solstice, the woods become silent. The sun now merely ripens, and has ceased to call forth blossoms and song. The finch alone keeps up his merry lay.
From my window, I can see the white foal grazing in the meadow. He knows me. When I look up, he stands still for a while and looks at me, and then dashes hither and thither at a furious rate. I have named him Wodan, and when I call him by that name, he comes to me.
I have sketched the foal, and am now carving it in birch. I think I shall succeed, but wood is obstinate, awkward stuff, after all. I lose my patience on slight provocation. I must try to overcome this.
Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could not write a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but now it is over.
I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can happen. I am at home in my new world.