Chapter 87 Indoor Heating - 5

Everyone was very happy to see his pile of wood.I like to keep my firewood piled under my window, the more splinters the better to remind me of the pleasant work.I have an old ax that no one wants, and I used to chop the roots from the bean fields on the sunny side of the house in winter.As the owner of my hired horses had prophesied while I was plowing, these roots warmed me twice, once when I split them and once when I burned them, but no more fuel could Here comes more heat.As for the axe, I was advised to go to the village blacksmith to have it forged, but I forged it myself, and fitted it with a hickory handle, so that it was ready for use.Although it was blunt, at least it was repaired.

A few pieces of oily pine are a great treasure.I don't know how much of this kind of fuel is still hidden in the belly of the earth.Years ago I used to scout out the bare hilltops where a large pine forest once stood, and I found some oily roots.They are almost indestructible.Roots that are at least thirty or forty years old are still sound at the heart, though the outer sapwood has decayed, and the thick bark forms a ring four or five inches outside the heart, level with the ground.With ax and shovel you explore the deposit, following the yellow tallow, the marrow, or as if you found the seedlings of a gold mine, down into the ground.Usually I start my fire with dead leaves from the forest, which I store up in my shed before the snow falls.Green hickory, finely split, is the kindling woodcutters use to build campfires in the forest.Every once in a while, I also prepare some of this kind of fuel.Like the village smoke, so a stream of smoke from my chimney, To many a wild dweller in Walden Vale Knows that I am awake:--

Smoke with light wings, bird of Icarus, Rise upward and your feathers will dissolve, Silent lark, messenger of dawn, Hovering over your village house, that's your nest; Or else you are a passing dream, midnight's A psychedelic figure, arranging your dress; To veil the stars by night, and by day, Darken the light, block the sun; Go, my incense, rise from this fire, See the gods, and ask them to forgive the bright fire. Hard, green, freshly split wood, though I use but little of it, suits me better than any other fuel.Sometimes on a winter afternoon I go out for a walk and leave a great fire, and come back three or four hours later with it still burning brightly.After I went out, the room was not completely deserted.Seems like I left a cheerful housewife behind.It was me and the fire who dwelt there; generally speaking, the steward was really faithful and trustworthy.There was, however, one day when I was chopping wood, and it occurred to me that I should go and look out the window to see if the house was on fire; and that was the one time, as far as I can remember, that I was especially anxious about it. , so, I went to look, and I saw a spark burning my bed, and I went in and put it out, and it had burnt a piece as big as the palm of my hand.Since my house is in such a sunny and windy position, with a low ridge, I can keep the fire out on any winter noon.