Five o'clock
The monotonous breathing and the familiar trees and stones mean much to me ; I am filled with a strange thankfulness ; everything seems well disposed towards me , mingles with my being ; I love it all . I pick up a little dry twig and hold it in my hand and sit looking at it , and think my own thoughts ; the twig is almost rotten , its poor bark touches me , pity fills my heart . And when I get up again , I do not throw the twig far away , but lay it down , and stand liking it ; at last I look at it once more with wet eyes before I go away and leave it there . Five o'clock . The sun tells me false time today ; I have been walking westward the whole day , and come perhaps half an hour ahead of my sun marks at the hut . I am quite aware of all this , but none the less there is an hour yet before six o'clock , so I get up again and go on a little . And the leaves rustle under foot .