"Isn't it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?"-- And his answer, given with
a sudden smile from out of the sardonic redness of his beard: "Id is an
Ardt!"
And his working coat so ragged that it would never cling to him but for
pure affection. -- To watch him even now makes one feel how terrible is
that dumb grief which has never learned to moan.
Words--those poor husks of sentiment!
For work in the country does not wait on illness--even death claims from
its onlookers but a few hours, birth none at all, and it is as well; for
what must be must, and in work alone man rests from grief.
A private grudge against Time and a personal pleasure in finishing this
job.
Full day has come again. But the face of it is a little strange, it is
not like yesterday. Queer--to think, no day is like to a day that's past
and no night like a night that's coming! Why, then, fear death, which is
but night? Why care, if next day have different face and spirit?