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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
39
I
split
my
log
into
as
fine
white
sections
as
a
man
ever
saw--every
piece
as
straight
as
morality,
and
without
so
much
as
a
sliver
to
mar
it.
Nothing
is
so
satisfactory
as
to
have
a
task
come
out
in
perfect
time
and
in
good
order.
The
little
pieces
of
bark
and
sawdust
I
swept
scrupulously
into
the
fireplace,
looking
up
from
time
to
time
to
see
how
Harriet
was
taking
it.
Harriet
was
still
disdainful.
Making
an
axe-helve
is
like
writing
a
poem
(though
I
never
wrote
one).
The
material
is
free
enough,
but
it
takes
a
poet
to
use
it.
Some
people
imagine
that
any
fine
thought
is
poetry,
but
there
was
never
a
greater
mistake.
A
fine
thought,
to
become
poetry,
must
be
seasoned
in
the
upper
warm
garrets
of
the
mind
for
long
and
long,
then
it
must
be
brought
down
and
slowly
carved
into
words,
shaped
with
emotion,
polished
with
love.
Else
it
is
no
true
poem.
Some
people
imagine
that
any
hickory
stick
will
make
an
axe-helve.
But
this
is
far
from
the
truth.
When
I
had
whittled
away
for
several
evenings
with
my
draw-shave
and
jack-knife,
both
of
which
I
keep
sharpened
to
the
keenest
edge,
I
found
that
my
work
was
not
progressing
as
well
as
I
had
hoped.
"This
is
more
of
a
task,"
I
remarked
one
evening,
"than
I
had
imagined."
Harriet,
rocking
placidly
in
her
arm-chair,
was
mending
a
number
of
pairs
of
new
socks,
Poor
Harriet!
Lacking
enough
old
holes
to
occupy
her
energies,
she
mends
holes
that
may
possibly
appear.
A
frugal
person!
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