326 



THE GUIDE TO NATURE. 



rather preserve its life than destroy it. 

 "Is it the lumberman, then, who is 

 the friend and lover of the pine, stands 

 nearest to it and understands its nature 

 best? Is it the tanner who has barked 

 it, or he who has boxed it for turpen- 

 tine, whom posterity will fable to have 

 been changed into a pine at last? No! 

 no ! it is the poet ; he it is who makes 

 the truest use of the pine, — who does 

 not fondle it with an axe, nor tickle it 

 with a saw, nor stroke it with a plane, 

 — -who knows whether its heart is false 

 without cutting" into it, — who has not 

 bought the stumpage of the township 



over all the rest of the forest, I realized 

 that the former were not the highest 

 use of the pine. It is not their bones 

 or hide or tallow that I love most. It 

 is the living spirit of the tree, not its 

 spirit of turpentine, with which I sym- 

 pathize, and which heals my cuts. It 

 is as immortal as I am, and perchance 

 will go to as high a heaven, there to 

 tower above me still." 



Thoroughness. 

 A great deal of the joy of life con- 

 sists in doing perfectly, or at least to 

 the best of one's ability, everything 



AN EVERGREEN MEMORY. 

 Here Thoreau would have exulted in the beginnings of the lives of "the immortals." 



on which it stands. All the pines shud- 

 der and heave a sigh when that man 

 steps on the forest floor. No, it is the 

 poet, who loves them as his own 

 shadow in the air, and lets them stand. 

 I have been into the lumber-yard, and 

 the carpenter's shop, and the tannery, 

 and the lamp-black factory, and the 

 turpentine clearing; but when at length 

 I saw the tops of the pines waving and 

 reflecting the light at a distance high 



which he attempts to do. There is a 

 sense of satisfaction, a pride in survey- 

 ing such a work — a work which is 

 rounded, full, exact, complete in all its 

 parts — which the superficial man, who 

 leaves his work in a slovenly, slipshod, 

 half-finished condition, can never 

 know. It is this conscientious com- 

 pleteness which turns work into art. 

 The smallest thing, well done, becomes 

 artistic. — William Mathews. 



