There was nothing they could
do now. They watched it apathetically, too weary to care.
Hollister looked on the destruction of his timber most stolidly of
all. For days he had put forth his best effort. His body ached. His
eyes smarted. His hands were sore. He had done his best without
enthusiasm. He was not oppressed so greatly as were some of these men
by this vast and useless destruction. What did it matter, after all? A
few trees more or less! A square mile or two of timber out of that
enormous stand. It was of no more consequence in the sum total than
the life of some obscure individual in the teeming millions of the
earth. It was his timber. So was his life a possession peculiar to
himself. And neither seemed greatly to matter; neither did matter
greatly to any one but himself.
It was all a muddle. He was very tired, too tired to bear thinking,
almost too tired to feel. He was conscious of himself as a creature of
weariness sitting against a tree, his scarred face blackened like the
tired faces of these other men, wondering dully what was the sum of
all this sweat and strain, the shattered plans, the unrewarded effort,
the pain and stress that men endure.
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