"Wood," said the housekeeper, pointing at the few sticks lying around the block.
"Ah," exclaimed the poet as he took up the axe, "you shall have it, comrade—have it good and plenty."
He laid the poem in the white birch frame against a stone and proceeded. We moved away, every man to his own place.
In a community where the communers have to chop the fire-wood, canned salmon is a good standby.
That day we had salmon for dinner.
Just as a matter of encouragement I had the artist of the community print a Latin motto in fine Gothic characters:
"LABORARE EST ORARE"
This I tacked to the block at the woodpile. We had one orator in the community—just one.
Next morning, when the motto stared him in the face, he said: "Gee whiz! that's great—Labour is oratory!" It was a blow at a venture in the interpretation of Latin and instead of wood to cook the breakfast we had a speech on the labour of the orator!
The idea that I was giving land away got noised abroad, and a thousand letters of inquiry came to me. Most of the inquirers asked if I gave "deeds" to the land.