A Tale from the Skidway 27 



quickly, shut it with a snap and put it into 

 his pocket. 



He had often heard the trees and wild- 

 flowers talk in the deep woods, but never a 

 log, and he wished to know more of the 

 monster pine on which he was sitting. 



" I did not know you cared," he said sym- 

 pathetically. " I thought you were only a 

 log, and would soon be sawed into boards, so 

 a few extra cuts would not make any differ- 

 ence." 



" Only a butt-log," sighed the old pine, and 

 its voice had a touch of melancholy, like the 

 soughing of wind in pine needles. " Only a 

 butt-log! That is what most people think, 

 but I am more than that. I am a personality. 

 A memory beside which all the other mem- 

 ories in the countryside pale and are as 

 nothing, unless I make an exception of the 

 memories of the mountains and the cliffs, near 

 which I stood; of course they are older and 

 wiser than I. But I am still a noble memory 

 and a personality as mysterious and rich as 

 the odor of my needles on a fresh summer 



