The slight gesture of a bony hand cut him off. Luke was leaning forward, goggles off, staring down the fire line which cleft the forest for half a mile before it disappeared over a low swell. His lips were parted, his breath fast.
"Tolman says this is probably the best of it," volunteered Rowe. "This was where the first photographs were taken and—"
The old man did not care what Rowe had to say. He reached for the door of the car, shoved it open and stepped to the ground. He stood there, looking up and about, leaning on his gold headed stick.
"Pine!" he muttered and cocked his head to listen to the talk of a thousand trees. He moved a few steps.
"White Pine," under his breath. "Michigan Pine—babies—baby pine!"
No, it was not he pine he had known, not the massive poles, not the clean timber, not the ragged, high tops. It was brushy, with trunks still retaining dead branches. There were no four or five-log trees; there were few that his men would have respected. It was baby pine, but it was uniform. There were trees that would yield two good logs, as saw-logs go today; there were a few that would make three. And it was thick! It was solid, without a Norway, without a hardwood tree in sight. It was straight, like straight, slim children, and it talked as the pine he had known and loved and mastered had talked!
Oh, that whispering! It quickened his heart; it refreshed memories that had been dormant for years; it tapped wells of emotion that he had forgotten; it sent a flush to his cheeks, a bright light of greed to his old eyes. He panted.
