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    The log at the wood-pile， the axe supported by it，

    The sylvan hut， the vine over the doorway， the space clear'd

    for a garden，

    The irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves after the storm

    is lull'd，

    The wailing and moaning at intervals， the thought of the sea，

    The thought of ships struck in the storm and put on their beam

    ends， and the cutting away of masts，

    The sentiment of the huge timbers of old-fashion'd houses and

    barns，

    The remember'd print or narrative， the voyage at a venture of

    men， families， goods，

    The disembarkation， the founding of a new city，

    The voyage of those who sought a New England and found it，

    the outset anywhere，

    The settlements of the Arkansas， Colorado， Ottawa， Willamette，

    The slow progress， the scant fare， the axe， rifle， saddle-bags；

    The beauty of all adventurous and daring persons，

    The beauty of wood-boys and wood- men with their clear

    untrimm'd faces，

    The beauty of independence， departure， actions that rely on

    themselves，

    The American contempt for statutes and ceremonies， the boundless

    impatience of restraint，

    The loose drift of character， the inkling through random types，

    the solidification；

    The butcher in the slaughter-house， the hands aboard schooners and

    sloops， the raftsmen， the pioneer，

    Lumbermen in their winter camp， daybreak in the woods， stripes of

    snow on the limbs of trees， the occasional snapping，

    The glad clear sound of one's own voice， the merry song， the natural

    life of the woods， the strong day's work，

    The blazing fire at night， the sweet taste of supper， the talk， the

    bed of hemlock-boughs and the bear-skin；

    The house-builder at work in cities or anywhere，

    The preparatory jointing， squaring， sawing， mortising，

    The hoist-up of beams， the push of them in their places， laying them

    regular，

    Setting the studs by their tenons in the mortises according as

    they were prepared，

    The blows of mallets and hammers， the attitudes of the men， their

    curv'd limbs，

    Bending， standing， astride the beams， driving in pins， holding on

    by posts and braces，

    The hook'd arm over the plate， the other arm wielding the axe，

    The floor-men forcing the planks close to be nail'd，

    Their postures bringing their weapons downward on the bearers，

    The echoes resounding through the vacant building；

    The huge storehouse carried up in the city well under way，

    The six framing-men， two in the middle and two at each end， carefully

    bearing on their shoulders a heavy stick for a cross-beam，

    The crowded line of masons with trowels in their right hands rapidly

    laying the long side-wall， two hundred feet from front to rear，

    The flexible rise and fall of backs， the continual click of the

    trowels striking the bricks，

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