Here in the woods are day and night, winter and summer, peace and
suffering, care and sometimes a little comfort in resting from our toil.
And so it drags along. Our Chariot of Time has lost its fourth wheel,
and it often goes badly and unevenly, but it goes.
Outside, they say, they are trying to overturn the world again. There
are rumours of war. No one troubles himself any longer about us
Winkelstegers. But I am pleased with one thing. Many of our young men
wish to enlist and become soldiers. That is a sign of their awakened
consciousness that they have a home and a fatherland which they must
defend. It is the first good fruit of the young parish.
For a time the destruction of the forest has ceased; the foundries
outside are closed. Many are now beginning to remove the stumps from
the cleared land and to convert it into fields for planting. The
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners are becoming tillers of the soil.
That is right; the wood-cutter disappears, but the peasant arises in his
place.
In reply to an appeal from me, a letter has come from the Baron. Now is
no time for churches and priests; we must help ourselves.
That is very wise advice. But the people will no longer go to church.
"When there is no mass and no sermon," they say, "one can pray for one's
self under the green trees." However, they do not remain under the
green trees, but in the tavern. The flock is scattered when there is no
shepherd.
The forester is also away, for he has other regions to look after. So I
am alone with my Winkelstegers, as Moses was alone with the Israelites
in the wilderness.
The commandments have been proclaimed, but the people are again working
at the golden calf. And manna falls no longer from heaven.