1 8 



tering out over the leafy earth. A little 

 space, and the monarch of the hill-side, 

 last night so tall and goodly under the mid- 

 night moon, has sunk to forms of use lies 

 in mill-stocks, in firewood, in promiscuous 

 brush-heaps that March winds soon shall 

 fan to flame and scatter wide in ashes. 



Twenty acres for new ground. Already 

 the axe-men have swept over ten. Attila 

 was not more ruthless. No standing thing 

 has escaped. First they cut down the un- 

 derbrush at root ; laid it orderly away ; left 

 dusk-dim aisles all through this God's first 

 temple. One by one the aisles have van- 

 ished. The clear, pale sunshine plays wan- 

 ton-free over virgin soil long hidden from 

 his beaming. The guardian trunks yet lie 

 thick upon it as though even in death they 

 would shield the mother-breast. 



Hither and yon they run. It is no feat 

 to walk yards stepping from trunk to trunk. 

 By and by the rail-maker will come, with 

 wedge and maul, to rend their tough hearts, 

 rive asunder their clear sap. Or maybe it 

 is the stave-man a mighty connoisseur in 

 timber. It must be thus and so of this 

 size, of that grain, so wide betwixt heart and 

 sap, neither brash nor warping, free of knot 

 or windshake, and riving true. 



