"Seems a pity to spoil all this, just to make four walls to shut the
missus in from anything worth looking at," Dan murmured as Johnny
reappeared. "They won't make anything as good as this up at the house."
Johnny the unpoetical hesitated, perplexed. Philosophy was not in his
line. "'Tisn't too bad," he said, suddenly aware of the beauty of the
scene, and then the tradesman came to the surface. "I reckon MY job'll
be a bit more on the plumb, though," he chuckled, and, delighted with his
little joke, shouldered his axe and walked towards one of the marked
trees, while Dan speculated aloud on the chances a man had of "getting
off alive" if a tree fell on him.
"Trees don't fall on a man that knows how to handle timber," the
unsuspecting Johnny said briskly; and as Dan feared that "fever was her
only chance then," he spat on his hands, and, sending the axe home into
the bole of the tree with a clean, swinging stroke, laid the
foundation-stone--the foundation-stone of a tiny home in the wilderness,
that was destined to be the dwellingplace of great joy, and happiness,
and sorrow.
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