A pine cut down, a dead pine, is no
more a pine than a dead human carcass is a man. Can he who has discovered
only some of the values of whalebone and whale oil be said to have
discovered the true use of the whale? Can he who slays the elephant for
his ivory be said to have "seen the elephant"? These are petty and
accidental uses; just as if a stronger race were to kill us in order to
make buttons and flageolets of our bones; for everything may serve a lower
as well as a higher use. Every creature is better alive than dead, men and
moose and pine-trees, and he who understands it aright will rather
preserve its life than destroy it.
Is it the lumberman, then, who is the friend and lover of the pine, stands
nearest to it, and understands its nature best? Is it the tanner who has
barked it, or he who has boxed it for turpentine, whom posterity will
fable to have been changed into a pine at last? No! no! it is the poet; he
it is who makes the truest use of the pine,--who does not fondle it with
an axe, nor tickle it with a saw, nor stroke it with a plane,--who knows
whether its heart is false without cutting into it,--who has not bought
the stumpage of the township on which it stands. All the pines shudder and
heave a sigh when _that_ man steps on the forest floor. No, it is the
poet, who loves them as his own shadow in the air, and lets them stand.
Pages:
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281