When the first breath of spring touched the Limberlost, and the snow receded before it, when the catkins began to bloom; when there came a hint of green to the trees, bushes, and swale; when the rushes lifted their heads, and the pulse of the newly resurrected season beat strong in the heart of nature, something new stirred in the breast of the boy.

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 is was a touch of spring fever, but Freckles knew better. He had never been so well. Clean, hot, and steady the blood pulsed in his veins. He was always hungry, and his hardest day’s work tired him not at all. For long months, without a single intermission, he had tramped those seven miles of trail twice every 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 exercises for every muscle of his body each hour of the day, and sound sleep in a room that never knew fire. He had taken on flesh and colour, and developed a greater strength and endurance than any one could ever have guessed. (Freckles 40-1)