The snow is melted. Yonder in the gorge the avalanches still thunder.
A year ago we planted a few fruit-trees; these are now becoming quite
green and the cherry-tree bears five snow-white blossoms.
The building of the church has commenced again. The masons have also
gone to work on the parsonage. That is to be a stately house, built
after plans from the owner of the forest. Why then must the parsonage
be larger than the schoolhouse? The latter is for an entire family and
a troop of young guests; the parsonage harbours one or a few single
people, whose world does not extend outwards, but is absorbed within.
But the parsonage is the home and refuge for all those needing help or
advice; an asylum for the persecuted and defenceless--the centre of the
parish.
As in the changing seasons the old is constantly reappearing in the new,
so these people continue the occupations, and in their ignorance and
poverty repeat the lives of their ancestors.
I no longer have time to wander about in the forest, watching the people
and studying nature. I must oversee the building constantly; the
workmen and foremen depend upon my advice. It requires much thought,
and I am obliged to call to my aid books and the experiences of others,
so that nothing may go wrong.
But I enjoy this active life and I am becoming younger and stronger.
Yesterday the roof of the church was raised. Many people were present,
each one wishing to contribute his mite to the church. The widow of
Mathes and her daughter were also working on the building. Not long ago
the woman brought a little stone from her hut, saying: "I should like to
have this pebble lie under the altar."
It is the stone which the lad threw at his mother.