The woods are stripped of leaf now, and the bird sounds are gone; only the crows rasp out their screeching¹ note at five in the morning, when they spread out over the fields. We see them, Falkenberg and I, as we go to our work; the yearling birds, that have not yet learned fear of the world, hop² along the path before our feet.

Then we meet the finch³, the sparrow of the timbered lands. He has been out in the woods already, and is coming back now to humankind, that he likes to live with and study from all sides. Queer little finch. A bird of passage, really, but his parents have taught him that one can spend a winter in the north; and now he will teach his children that the north’s the only place to spend the winter in at all. But there is still a touch of emigrant⁴ blood in him, and he remains⁵ a wanderer. One day he and his will gather together and set off for somewhere else, many parishes away, to study a new collection of humans there — and in the aspen grove⁶ never a finch to be seen. And it may be a whole week before a new flock of this winged life appears and settles in the same place. . . . Herregud! how many a time have I watched the finches in their doings, and found pleasure in all.

One day Falkenberg declares he is all right again now. Going to save up and put aside a hundred Kroner this winter, out of tuning⁷ pianos and felling trees, and then make up again with Emma. I, too, he suggests, would be better advised to give over sighing for ladies of high degree, and go back to my own rank and station.

Falkenberg was right.

On Saturday evening we stopped work a trifle earlier than usual to go up and get some things from the store. We wanted shirts, tobacco and wine.

While we were in the store I caught sight of a little work-box, ornamented⁸ with shells, of the kind seafaring men used to buy in the old days at Amsterdam, and bring home to their girls; now the Germans make them by the thousand. I bought the workbox, with the idea of taking out one of the shells to serve as a thumbnail for my pipe.

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