Then content within us waxes, and we scorn the world's applause
'Mid the ringing of the axes and the droning of the saws.
Let me tread with axe ashoulder where the track winds through the hazel.
What care I for tricks and fashions of the sheltered city street?
For we make no god of pleasure,
And we form no cult of leisure
In the land where big trees flourish, in the land where big hearts beat.
Let me feel the pride of striving where the timbers crash and splinter;
Strength of arm and steady courage are the qualities we prize.
Though we face our fortune gaily
Danger lurks beside us daily—
Oh, there's little room for weaklings where the timber ranges rise.
When above the welcome shingles lazy smoke, all curling blue,
With the forest hazes mingles, and the long day's toil is through;
When across the little clearing children race with greeting cries—
No man asks for further cheering where the timber ranges rise?
