There is something about chopping down a tree gives a man quiet resolve. It is brutal violence and solemn ritual combined. It is the act of sacrificing a life so that a new life can begin. The tree becomes fuel for a fire, or a shelf for books, a tread for a stair, a frame for a house, a chair, or a table. Each tree has its own history and unique fingerprint. Curved and worn from years of wind, rain, and drought. I've never chopped down a tree that was younger than me, and the realization of that fact is sobering in its finality. Here is a stalk that has been living and breathing this air longer that I have, and I am ending its life so that it can serve my purposes. But are we not given all living things and green plants for our use and cause? I will never kill an animal except for the use of food, so in the same way, I will never chop down the tree for any reason but to serve a noble purpose. What use is there in the sport of chopping down a tree? There is no moral reward in it. But to cut down a tree for firewood or to build a useful piece of furniture or to craft a jewelry box, or to make paper on which to write a love letter, what other use could serve so noble a purpose? Granted, a tree serves its purpose to simply stand tall and be admired, but I tell you the truth, I've never had a more intimate relationship with a tree than when my hands run the length of its grain with a plane or a saw or a sheet of sandpaper. I would challenge any naturalist to express their love for trees without ever finding out what's inside one. No one could truly understand a person without drawing out their soul through conversation. In the same way, I have drawn out the soul of many a tree through the means of a steel blade, and have known each of them personally through hours of joyful labor.