"Wh-what do ye mean by his t-timber?" Strong asked.
"His character," Dunmore answered. "Men are like trees. Some are
hickory, some are oak, some are cedar, some are only basswood. Some are
strong, beautiful, generous; some are small and sickly for want of air
and sunlight; some are as selfish and quarrelsome as a thorn-tree. Every
year we must draw energy out of the great breast of nature and put on
a fresh ring of wood. We must grow or die. You know what comes to the
rotten-hearted?"
"Uh-huh," said the hunter.
"There's good timber enough in you and in that little book of yours,"
Dunmore went on. "If it's only milled with judgment--some of it would
stand planing and polishing--there's enough, my friend, to make a
mansion. Believe me, it will not be lost."
Strong looked very thoughtful. He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' b-but
a woodpecker's drum," he answered. After a moment of silence he asked,
"What'll become o' the country?"
"Without forests it will go the way of Egypt and Asia Minor," said the
white-haired man. "They were thickly wooded in the day of their power.
Now what are they? Desert wastes!" Dunmore rose and filled his lungs,
and added: "As you said to me one day, 'People are no better than the
air they breathe.' There's going to be nothing but cities, and slowly
they will devour our substance. Indigestion, weakness, impotency,
degeneration will follow.
"Strong, I'm already on the downward path. Half a day's walk has undone
me. I'll get to bed and go home in the morning."