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280 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1948
A good woodsman has patience. He realizes he can't change nature nor hurry her. He doesn't fret because a river runs the wrong way for his journey, doesn't cuss over being wind-bound for days on an island in a big lake. He knows he can't lower the hills to make a portage easier, and in winter he won't try to fight a blizzard. He learns early that rushing does not often get you where you are going any faster than taking it quietly. Wise in the ways of hte woods, he realizes that often the longest way is the shortest. He never takes any more steps than he needs to, and he knows just where to sink his axe to bring down a tree with the least number of strokes. In far away cities they call that efficiency and teach men to do things with the fewest motions. Up here they have no name for it, but watch a good woodsman pick up a canoe and walk away with it and you will know what I'm driving at.
"I can hardly describe the contentment that comes to me in November. Maybe it is a feeling of security, which is what every one is looking for. The way I look at it, security and happiness are one and the same thing. On a stormy night when the trees thrash in the high winds that claw at the eaves, I sit listening to the murmuring of the fire in the big stove, at peace with myself and the world. Give me food to keep me strong, wood to keep me warm, good friends to talk to me, fine books to read, and I have all I need. I know men who think that's not enough."