“Now tell me,” she breathed, still in the fascinated monotone.
“What?” he inquired.
“Your life; what you do; all about it. You must tell me a story.”
Thorpe settled himself more lazily, and laughed with quiet enjoyment. Never had he felt the expansion of a similar mood. The barrier between himself and self-expression had faded, leaving not the smallest debris of the old stubborn feeling.
“The story of the woods,” he began, “the story of the saw log. It would take a bigger man than I to tell it. I doubt if any one man ever would be big enough. It is a drama, a struggle, a battle. Those men you hear there are only the skirmishers extending the firing line. We are fighting always with Time. I'll have to hurry now to get those roads done and a certain creek cleared before the snow. Then we'll have to keep on the keen move to finish our cutting before the deep snow; to haul our logs before the spring thaws; to float them down the river while the freshet water lasts. When we gain a day we have scored a victory; when the wilderness puts us back an hour, we have suffered a defeat. Our ammunition is Time; our small shot the minutes, our heavy ordnance the hours!”
The girl placed her hand on his shoulder. He covered it with his own.
“But we win!” he cried. “We win!”
“That is what I like,” she said softly, “the strong spirit that wins!” She hesitated, then went on gently, “But the battlefields, Harry; to me they are dreadful. I went walking yesterday morning, before you came over, and after a while I found myself in the most awful place. The stumps of trees, the dead branches, the trunks lying all about, and the glaring hot sun over everything! Harry, there was not a single bird in all that waste, a single green thing. You don't know how it affected me so early in the morning. I saw just one lonesome pine tree that had been left for some reason or another, standing there like a sentinel. I could shut my eyes and see all the others standing, and almost hear the birds singing and the wind in the branches, just as it is here.” She seized his fingers in her other hand. “Harry,” she said earnestly, “I don't believe I can ever forget that experience, any more than I could have forgotten a battlefield, were I to see one. I can shut my eyes now, and can see this place our dear little wooded knoll wasted and blackened as that was.”
The man twisted his shoulder uneasily and withdrew his hand.
“Harry,” she said again, after a pause, “you must promise to leave this woods until the very last. I suppose it must all be cut down some day, but I do not want to be here to see after it is all over.”