I recovered from my illusion under the instruction of my abler master, the animal.

The Capricorn shall teach us that the problem is more obscure than the abbe led me to believe.
When wedge and mallet are at work, preparing my provision of firewood under the grey sky that heralds winter, a favourite relaxation creates a welcome break in my daily output of prose.

By my express orders, the woodman has selected the oldest and most ravaged trunks in his stack.
My tastes bring a smile to his lips; he wonders by what whimsy I prefer wood that is worm-eaten--chirouna, as he calls it--to sound wood which burns so much better.

I have my views on the subject; and the worthy man submits to them.
And now to us two, O my fine oak-trunk seamed with scars, gashed with wounds whence trickle the brown drops smelling of the tan-yard.

The mallet drives home, the wedges bite, the wood splits.