VII. 



IN THE WOOD LOT. 



"THERE 's blue jays a-plenty up in the wood 

 lot," said the farmer's boy, hearing me lament 

 my unsuccessful search for that wily bird. 

 "There's one pair makes an awful fuss every 

 time I passes." 



I immediately offered to accompany the youth 

 on his next trip up the mountain, where he was 

 engaged in dragging down to our level, sunshine 

 and summer breezes, winter winds and pure 

 mountain air, in the shape of the bodies of trees, 

 whose noble heads were laid low by the axes last 

 winter. One hundred and fifty cords of beauty, 

 the slow work of unnumbered years, brought 

 down to "what base uses" ! the most beautiful 

 of nature's productions degraded to the lowest 

 service to fry our bacon and bake our pies ! 



The farmer did not look upon it exactly in 

 that way; he called it "cord-wood," and his 

 oxen dragged it down day by day. The point 

 of view makes such a difference ! 



The road that wound down through the valley, 

 skirting its hills, bridging its brooks, and con- 



