He worked at the snow until he was tired, and he worked well, though that was no hardship. He had a fine job in the forest, and he was going to have many. "I don't think you're going to sell any trees this year," said the stranger. "You're lucky!" "I don't believe that." "Believe it!" "I don't even like to hear you say it." "Oh, you have nothing to do with it." They were silent a moment, then the stranger spoke. "Perhaps I do," he said, "for I could tell you something about the trees that's likely to please you." "I'll be very glad to hear it." "Just tell me one thing." "Anything you like," replied Hans, who had a feeling that this was important. "Did you ever hear a tree complaining?" The other was silent a moment. "Not exactly," he replied, "but I have a feeling that some of them were doing so inside themselves. Still," he added, "that was long ago." "A man makes many changes," said the stranger. "It's true," said Hans. "Some go out and some come in." "There are others," the stranger continued, "that go out and then come in. But I must tell you of the biggest thing that goes out and never comes in—unless you make a great mistake. If you see a tree as it is, it has nothing to do with the tree you are thinking about. What you see is a piece of the forest, and it is always pleasant. If you see a tree as it ought to be, then what you see is nothing but a tree. A tree is what it is for itself alone. It can't be anything else. If you have no opinion of it at all, your opinion is nothing to it. What has your opinion to do with it?" "I know all that," Hans replied, "but you don't know what I see at all. You look at it from outside. That's what makes your talk so useless." "No, but there is one thing more, my friend, that you see which you are not aware of. You never think of it; but it is the one thing that makes all the difference between you and me. But, after all, I won't bother you much longer. It's just this," he continued: "You don't know all that you see." "No," said Hans, "I guess I don't." "That's right, and if you saw it all you would be the best man in the woods. I'm going on now, and you'd better not forget what I've told you. If you have no judgment, you'll never get anywhere with trees." "Thank you very much." "But if you make a mistake," the stranger added, "I wouldn't wonder if you had a little talk with trees, after all." "So I will, and if I can, I'll send a man to talk with you." "I haven't any idea," the stranger continued, "that you see all you should, and I don't see all I should. I don't suppose there's any other man in all the forest who sees as much as I do. It's strange that I should have found so good a man. How many acres do you cut over?" "Oh, about twenty." "Well, you see, there are forty acres in a piece. I should like to know what you think I am. One man can't cut ten acres a day. Can you see, by your eyes?" "You tell me to cut ten acres a day." "That's it; and all the men who cut twenty acres do it in ten hours. But you cut that much and don't know it." "What you see is the trees," Hans replied, "but I don't see them. They never tell me anything." "Now you must be going. I'll go with you as far as the river. I like your talk, and you give me good advice; but I won't take any more of it from you." "Very well," said the young forester. "I'm going to the tree up the hill. I like your talk, too. Come along." # PART FIVE # HISTORY AND HOPE # CHAPTER XXI # TREES AND THE STORM JOHNNIE had taken a fancy to the newcomer. Hans was no longer to him what he had once been. As he continued in the woods, he no longer considered the woods so important. He missed the old man; and he missed the birds that used to come to him regularly. One morning as he worked at the snow his gun fell from under his arm. The man looked at it, saw that it was loaded, put it back and covered it up. Then he cut his way to a place on the side hill. When he reached it, he turned over the snow in a large circle. He went out toward the center of it, about thirty feet from the edge, where he had left a pile of sawdust. It was a fine sight to see Hans begin to saw a piece of wood, first making a cut that was nearly square. He would stand straight up, pick up his ax, raise it high in the air and let it fall again on the edge of his saw. The sound was mellow and strong, and the man smiled at it; but he was not thinking of what he was doing, or of the effect. It was almost like that of a man who should take his coat off and swing his arms about. It was as if he knew the kind of wood he wanted to cut; it was as if he made a sound and knew what the wood would do; it was as if he had an understanding with the wood. He swung his ax, and at every stroke he smiled. But he was working steadily and making progress. He swung his ax as if he were counting the strokes. He was working at the side of the path, and presently he would have to step into the snow or take his axe with him. He looked down and saw where the feet had been. Then he looked up and saw where the feet would be. It did not seem that any harm could come to him, but he went on with his sawing and had to step into the snow as he did before. It was growing dark, and he stopped and looked around. When he saw that the tree was a good one, he took a piece of fine dry wood from the pile and touched the tree. It was as if he had a gun in his hand, and it was the fire that he wanted; it was as if he were looking for a place to shoot. It would be impossible to get all the things that a man wants into the world, but the young forester thought he was getting them all into this tree. He stood in front of the tree and looked at it. He had all the tools he needed, and it seemed as if he must take every one of them into this tree. Then he went over to the side and sat down. He put his head on his knee and seemed to be thinking. "Where are you now, you old tree? Do you know what is happening? Are you glad I am here? Are you glad that I am going to kill you, and that I'm going to make you into something that will last? I think you are. You must be very happy. You never used to be like that before, but I am thinking of you now as I never did before. I am thinking of the tree you were, of the way you were, of the sound you made. I am thinking of your being tall and slender. I am thinking of your coming down in great long strips like a flag-staff in a ship. I am thinking of your saying that there was nothing in the world but its own beauty, that it was the only important thing, and that there was no other beauty except the beauty of the world. I have forgotten all that, and now I am thinking of that thing again. You have been very happy—so happy that you cried out with the joy of it, but I do not think I shall cry out with the pain of it, and perhaps if I did you would look at me again and see how happy I was. I am sure that is what you would like to do, but that isn't for me any more. It would be very good for me to get something out of it, if I can, but I don't seem to be able to. I shall never get anything of it except that thing which is myself. I cannot make it out. I don't know what is happening. I can see the tree, and I see you, too; and you are right, you good fellow; there is no sense in anything else. You have no reason to live. If I cut you down, it will be nothing to you. The only thing that will help you is to stay alive as long as possible. But I shall be careful not to cut you down. And I shall do as well as I can with the wood. You shall not say that I was cruel to you. You shall go where you will get many friends, and they will enjoy you. I am sure of that,