Nature always levies her tribute.  Now she laid a powerful hand on the soul of Freckles, to which the boy’s whole being responded, though he had not the least idea what was troubling him.  Duncan accepted his wife’s theory that it was a touch of spring fever, but Freckles knew better.  He never had been so well.  Clean, hot, and steady the blood pulsed in his veins.  He was always hungry, and his most difficult work tired him not at all.  For long months, without a single intermission, he had tramped those seven miles of trail twice each day, through every conceivable state of weather.  With the heavy club he gave his wires a sure test, and between sections, first in play, afterward to keep his circulation going, he had acquired the skill of an expert drum major.  In his work there was exercise for every muscle of his body each hour of the day, at night a bath, wholesome food, and sound sleep in a room that never knew fire.  He had gained flesh and color, and developed a greater strength and endurance than anyone ever could have guessed.

Nor did the Limberlost contain last year’s terrors.  He had been with her in her hour of desolation, when stripped bare and deserted, she had stood shivering, as if herself afraid.  He had made excursions into the interior until he was familiar with every path and road that ever had been cut.  He had sounded the depths of her deepest pools, and had learned why the trees grew so magnificently.  He had found that places of swamp and swale were few compared with miles of solid timber-land, concealed by summer’s luxuriant undergrowth.

The sounds that at first had struck cold fear into his soul he now knew had left on wing and silent foot at the approach of winter.  As flock after flock of the birds returned and he recognized the old echoes reawakening, he found to his surprise that he had been lonely for them and was hailing their return with great joy.  All his fears were forgotten.  Instead, he was possessed of an overpowering desire to know what they were, to learn where they had been, and whether they would make friends with him as the winter birds had done; and if they did, would they be as fickle?  For, with the running sap, creeping worm, and winging bug, most of Freckles’ “chickens” had deserted him, entered the swamp, and feasted to such a state of plethora on its store that they cared little for his supply, so that in the strenuous days of mating and nest-building the boy was deserted.

He chafed at the birds’ ingratitude, but he found speedy consolation in watching and befriending the newcomers.  He surely would have been proud and highly pleased if he had known that many of the former inhabitants of the interior swamp now grouped their nests beside the timber-line solely for the sake of his protection and company.

The yearly resurrection of the Limberlost is a mighty revival.  Freckles stood back and watched with awe and envy the gradual reclothing and repopulation of the swamp.  Keen-eyed and alert through danger and loneliness, he noted every stage of development, from the first piping frog and unsheathing bud, to full leafage and the return of the last migrant.