half an hour in
gazing and in thinking. Yes, good friend, envy no man in the rank of
scholars. Look at me; I am almost always ill; and what a burden is a
sickly body! How strong, on the contrary, are you! I am never happier
than when, without being remarked, I can watch a dinner-table thronged
by hungry men and maids. Even if these folks be not generally so happy
as their superiors, at table they are certainly happier."

"Yes, sir; we relish our eating and drinking. And, lately, when felling
and sorting that wood below, I was more than usually lively; it seems as
though I had a notion I was to do some good with it."

"And must I permit you to make me a present?" asked Gellert, resting his
chin upon his left hand.

The peasant answered: "It is not worth talking about."

"Nay, it might be well worth talking about; but I accept your present.
It is pride not to be ready to accept a gift. Is not all we have a
gift from God? And what one man gives another, he gives, as is most
appropriately said, for God's sake. Were I your minister, I should be
pleased to accept a present from you. You see, good friend, we men have
no occasion to thank each other. You have given me nothing of yours, and
I have given you nothing of mine. That the trees grow in the forest is
none of your doing, it is the work of the Creator and Preserver of
the world; and the soil is not yours; and the sun and the rain are not
yours; they all are the works of His hand; and if, perchance, I have
some healthy thoughts rising up in my soul, which benefit my fellow-men,
it is none of mine, it is His doing. The word is not mine, and the
spirit is not mine; and I am but an instrument in His hand. Therefore
one man needs not to utter words of thanks to his fellow, if every one
would but acknowledge who it really is that gives."

The peasant looked up in astonishment. Gellert remarked it, and said:
"Understand me aright. I thank you from my heart; you have done a kind
action. But that the trees grow is none of yours, and it is none of mine
that thoughts arise in me; every one simply tills his field, and tends
his woodland, and the honest, assiduous toil he gives thereto is his
virtue. That you felled, loaded, and brought the wood, and wish no
recompense for your labor, is very thank-worthy. My wood was more easily
felled; but those still nights which I and all of my calling pass in
heavy thought--who can tell what toil there is in them? There is in the
world an a