DEAD TREES LOVE THE FIRE. 153 



in the day of the children whom I am teaching 

 to look upon a blazing hearth as an essential 

 feature of home. By that time, man will 

 probably get his heat from stored-up sunlight, 

 or from electricity furnished by the rush of the 

 tides or the sweep of the winds. 



As we have a good hour's sail before us, one 

 of the party reads out Thoreau's chapter on 

 firewood, a wonderful study which rather 

 dwarfs all attempts to say much upon the 

 same subject. This is what I call a happiness 

 beyond the making of any number of dollars. 

 Here we are in our staunch, safe boat, gliding 

 along with just enough sea breeze to take us 

 to that haven where we would be, my wife and 

 children finding health and spirits in it, a few 

 books and magazines, and the prospect of sev- 

 eral hours of hard, healthy work in the woods 

 before we make sail for home as the sun goes 

 down. The boom of the surf is the only sound 

 that comes to us as we reach the middle of the 

 bay and head straight for the little half-rotten 

 dock which is all that is left of some improve- 

 ments made years ago by a company of specu- 

 lators who expected to establish a summer re- 

 sort at the point we are steering for. Away 



