The log was white birch. The beautiful satin bark at once kindled into
a soft, pure, but brilliant flame, something like that of naphtha. There
is no other wood flame so rich, and it leaps up in a joyous, spiritual
way, as if glad to burn for the sake of burning. Burning like a clear
oil, it has none of the heaviness and fatness of the pine and the
balsam. Woodsmen are at a loss to account for its intense and yet
chaste flame, since the bark has no oily appearance. The heat from it
is fierce, and the light dazzling. It flares up eagerly like young love,
and then dies away; the wood does not keep up the promise of the
bark. The woodsmen, it is proper to say, have not considered it in its
relation to young love. In the remote settlements the pine-knot is still
the torch of courtship; it endures to sit up by. The birch-bark has
alliances with the world of sentiment and of letters. The most poetical
reputation of the North American Indian floats in a canoe made of it;
his picture-writing was inscribed on it. It is the paper that nature
furnishes for lovers in the wilderness, who are enabled to convey a
delicate sentiment by its use, which is expressed neither in their ideas
nor chirography. It is inadequate for legal parchment, but does very
well for deeds of love, which are not meant usually to give a perfect
title. With care, it may be split into sheets as thin as the Chinese
paper. It is so beautiful to handle that it is a pity civilization
cannot make more use of it. But fancy articles manufactured from it are
very much like all ornamental work made of nature's perishable seeds,
leaves, cones, and dry twigs,--exquisite while the pretty fingers are
fashioning it, but soon growing shabby and cheap to the eye. And yet
there is a pathos in "dried things," whether they are displayed as
ornaments in some secluded home, or hidden religiously in bureau drawers
where profane eyes cannot see how white ties are growing yellow and ink
is fading from treasured letters, amid a faint and discouraging perfume
of ancient rose-leaves.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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