“There’s another thing; this timber will be worth more every year it stands, because it will be growing scarce.”
“O, Uncle Isaac, this is a great country; it won’t be till you and I, and our grandchildren, if we have any, are dead and gone.”
“That’s true; and it ain’t true there’s no end to the timber in the country; but the timber that is directly on the shore, where a vessel can go right to it, is growing scarce, more especially these big masts. The king’s commissioners scoured the sea-coast pretty well before the war; and masts and spars on an island like this, with a good harbor, where they can be got to the ship’s tackles with little expense, will, in a few years, bear a great price; for if timber is plenty, labor is not. Thank God, every one has enough to do; and it costs, I can tell you, to bring timber down a river thirty miles, to what it does to roll it off the bank, as you can here.”
“I see you are right; for I’m sure I don’t know of another island that is timbered like this. Others have all been cut, and burnt over by the fishermen setting fires in the summer; about half the timber on the islands is burnt up by mere carelessness.”
“You wouldn’t like to lose this brook—would you?”
“Lose the brook! I’d as soon lose the island; it would not be worth much without the brook.”
“Well, just as sure as you clear the middle ridge, and the north-east end of the island where the springs are that feed it, and let the sun and wind in on the land, you’ll dry the brook.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t think so—I know so. There’s a brook runs through my field. Long since I can remember it used to carry a saw-mill; but my father and I cleared the land, and the people at the source of it cleared theirs, and now it’s dry all summer, and but a little water in it early in the spring and late in the fall.”
“I’m glad you told me this; you know I’m a sailor, and don’t know much about such matters. I hope you’ll never be mealy-mouthed, but speak just as you think.”