March 25, 2013
Appointed task in the fields or the workhouse, so natural and so pleasant did it now seem to labor with my own hands, and to eat my bread in the sweat of my face. If there was one kind of work I preferred above all others, it was wood-cutting, and as a great deal of timber was required at this season, I was allowed to follow my own inclination. In the forest, a couple of miles from the house, several tough old giants chiefly oak, chestnut, elm, and beech had been marked out for destruction: in some cases because they had been scorched and riven by lightnings.
And were an eyesore; in others, because time had robbed them of their glory, withering their long, desolate arms, and bestowing on their crowns that lusterless, scanty foliage which has a mournful meaning, like the thin white hairs on the bowed head of a very old man. At this door bells distance from the house I could freely indulge my propensity for singing, albeit in that coarser tone which had failed to win favor with my new friends. Among the grand trees, out of earshot of them all, I could shout aloud to my heart's content, rejoicing in the boisterous old Video door entry which, like John Peele's view-hallo, Might awaken the dead Or the fox from his lair in the morning.
Meanwhile, with the frantic energy of a Gladstone out of office, I plied my ax, its echoing strokes making fit accompaniment to my strains, until for many yards about me the ground was littered with white and yellow chips; then, exhausted with my efforts, I would sit down to rest and eat my simple midday fare, to admire myself in my deep-video door monitor and chocolate working-dress, and, above everything, to think and dream of Door bell. In door phone systems
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